


The Dead of Night

by nameloc_ar_115



Series: Things That Go Bump in the Night [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Abduction, Abuse of Italics and Parentheses and Hyphens, Alpha Derek Hale, Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Dry Orgasm, Elements of Crack, Gross Abuse of the English Language and Its Grammatical Rules, Grumpy Derek Hale, Isolation, M/M, Riding/Topping from the Bottom, Rimming, Roommates, Sassy Stiles Stilinski, Sex Without Lubrication, Shameless Buffy References, Supernatural Creatures are Subjects, Unethical Experimentation, Vampire Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 16:52:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7446664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the point of being captured by deranged scientists who want to experiment on you if you have no one to share it with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

               Christ on a cracker, Stiles was infuriatingly, mind-numbingly, spectacularly _bored._ He had assumed that being abducted by crazy scientists and thrown into a secret, underground facility would promise excitement and intrigue. That's what the label on the box seemed to guarantee.

               He felt a little cheated.

               Instead, he was beaten unconscious by a dozen lackeys suited in black uniforms and dropped into a cell with a big, taunting glass window that faced a hallway. Even the interior décor dulled him to tears. Stark white and sterile. The floors, the walls, the ceilings.

               They took some baseline health readings when he first arrived. But it was quick work since none of his physiological systems really functioned anymore. There were no action potentials to measure (no ions or enzymes left), and therefore, no EEGs or EKGs (no heartbeat either). His blood type was mercurial and depended wholly upon his last meal.

               They stimulated his fangs, digging metal dental instruments into his mouth and _tapping_ on his canines until they lengthened into a point. They recorded the size of his enhanced teeth with calipers and cut his gums with the sharp tools. He was slightly traumatized by the end of the nightmarish physical. However, it _was_ kind of interesting to learn his undead body temperature. (He ran at a balmy 62°F, still putting out enough heat to melt acetic acid. He could live with that.)

               Afterwards, they'd tossed him back into his cage and left him. They performed different tests every few days, repeating some of the procedures weeks later and comparing results. But between the scientists’ poke-and-prod show, there was nothing to do. He was _dying._ (Figuratively, of course.)

               He had been here six months, and the captives or subjects—or whatever the fuck—were isolated, so he didn't even have anyone to talk to. Based on the amount of screaming and singing and whistling he did, he had a hunch that no one else could hear him either.

               The only person he communicated with was a sweet, dopey werewolf named Scott who lived in the cell opposite him. They waved sometimes. It was cool.

               If Stiles moved to either side of the glass window, he could see the edges of the cells to the left and right of Scott's. The most he had ever seen was an arm, so he abandoned that endeavor soon enough.

               Not to mention, the electricity. If he wasn't paying attention, leaning forward on his tippy-toes for a better view, his neck craning, his cheek would press against the glass. Fried extra crispy. He had learned that lesson after the first time.

               Okay, _fine_. After the sixth time he had charbroiled a hand or his face.

               On lab days with the scientists (he wouldn't condone the use of “doctors” until he saw the proper credentials and maybe not even then, with the egregious violations of the Hippocratic Oath), he had asked for books or magazines or even crayons, but all requests had been ignored, denied, or retracted by Stiles himself after a thorough tasing.

               Usually, the latter was carried out by K. because she was a vicious bitch who liked dispensing pain. Sometimes, if he was too insistent, G. or V. would give him a shock or two to shut him up. They didn't relish it like the bitch though; they just treated it as an unfortunate but necessary measure. A. and C. never electrocuted him no matter how much he begged for comic books or a Rubik’s cube, and only repeated the same token phrase that those items weren't permitted. Still, A. and C. were alright.

               They all shared the same last name— _Argent_ —and seriously, this wasn't ideal work for a family operation. They really should've opened an Italian restaurant instead. The only way to differentiate them by name was to rely on the initial before the surname.

               They were the only scientists Stiles had seen here, aside from the lab assistant peons who didn't even have a last name embroidered on the lapels of their white coats. But there were probably more. After all, the only parts of the facility accessible to him included his small stretch of hallway and the labs he visited.

               (Except for that one time.)

               When he did leave his cell, he was always bagged and cuffed and shackled. Never could be too careful with the murderous supernatural monsters.

               Today had been an easy lab day. C. clicked through a gazillion slides and recorded Stiles’ response to the images with biofeedback monitors adhered to his temples. Stiles didn't know if they _could_ measure his brain activity since the organ was no more operational than his heart. The lights were still on in the house, but all the windows were blinded and shuttered. Maybe they had special technology. Who knew; none of them ever let him see the computer screen.

               The pictures consisted of puppies and ice cream and pretty men and women, interrupted by flashes of crime scenes and shark attacks and lions eating gazelles. As far as Stiles could figure out, they were looking for hunger triggers or some shit.

               What a bunch of fucking geniuses. Staring at the tiled floor made him hungry. They only fed him twice a day, a bag in the morning and a bag in the evening. It was enough to avoid hunger pains and cravings, but his stomach always felt hollow and rumbly (it couldn't actually rumble anymore—no digestive juices or gastric peristalsis). It was never as much as he wanted.

               A few guards escorted him back to his cell. They tore the bag from his head—none too gently, he might add—when he reached the inner room with two doors. He had been in it enough times to know that the door on the other side of the guards connected to the main hallway and the door behind himself led to his cell. They urged him into his cage, where he obediently stuck his hands through the slot in the door. A rectangle had been cut out of the bottom, too, for him to place his feet. The guards removed his cuffs and shackles, and before leaving, one pressed the intercom button in the inner room and spoke into Stiles’ cell.

               “Meet your new roommate, fucker,” the crackling voice jeered from the speaker.

               Stiles turned and found a hulking yet attractive man in his cage. He was still in his street clothes, a leather jacket and worn jeans—fresh meat.

               Stiles performed a rapid appraisal. Killer eyes? Check. Smokin’ bod? Affirmative.

               Excluding the whole kidnapped-and-loss-of-freedom situation, the guy was sporting an inexplicably pissed-off expression. And his scowling glower (glowering scowl?) was unfairly directed at Stiles.

               Homicidal glare? You betcha.

               “Oh, _fuck_ yes,” Stiles cackled.

* * *

               So, his first meeting with his roommate did not go as planned. Well, Stiles never planned for it because he didn’t even know it was a possibility in this achromatic hellhole.

               In short, it went kind of poorly.

               After Stiles’ outburst, the guy snarled at him (which was a little off-putting) and then charged (which was even more so).

               Thankfully, the side and back walls of the cell were not electrified. Stiles felt like his vertebrae were making dents in the paint with how hard the dude pinned him. Tall, Dark, and Prickly was only getting started. He wrapped a large hand around Stiles’ throat and lifted him a foot off the floor, sliding him up the damn wall.

               Stiles laughed, relaxing in his cellmate’s grip. He loved a good private joke. The guy was disarmed by his reaction, his fire-and-brimstone eyebrows sinking farther down his forehead with a stubborn perplexity.  

               “Dude, I don’t breathe.”

               His roommate growled as if Stiles was misleading him (he would _never_ ) and redoubled the tightness of his grip, shaking Stiles by the neck.

               While Stiles had spoken truthfully—his unused lungs probably looked like dead, shriveled leaves—the constriction was making his larynx itchy. He gained some momentum by swinging his legs, an old trick he learned as a kid (and a human) when he was first navigating the monkey bars. He bent his knees and brought them close to his chest and thrust his legs upwards with a burst of abdominal muscles until they wrapped around the guy’s muscled arm.

               Stiles had respectable core strength. With not much else to do in his cell, he did one hundred— _approximately_ one hundred—crunches every day. That was all paying off now.

               Stiles sighed in relief. Now that he was horizontal, the pressure had really eased on his throat and vocal cords. His roommate looked repulsed by the recent developments and was trying to shake Stiles off of his arm like one would a vengeful octopus. Stiles found himself unceremoniously dumped onto the floor in a pile.

               “God, that was rude,” Stiles griped, caressing his cranium.

               “Don’t fuck with me,” the guy threatened.

               “I wouldn’t _dream_ of fucking you—fucking _with_ you,” Stiles corrected hurriedly, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Dammit.

               His roommate flared a nostril and huffed, backing up with slow, sure steps until he was leaning against the opposite wall. He crossed his arms, biceps and pectorals bulging, _mocking_ Stiles, and leveled him with a broody glare.

               Stiles did have some sense of dignity. “Hey, asshole,” he called. Clearly not a strong sense of self-preservation though. The murder stare intensified. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m stuck in this cell with you. In fact, this is _my_ cell, and maybe I should get to be the one with the pissy attitude because I didn’t really wanna share it.”

               Lie. He was fucking pumped to have a roommate, albeit a snarly, mean one.

               The guy grunted but didn’t stomp across the room and try to decapitate him. So, progress.

               “Whether you like it or not—although I can tell you’re just _bubbling_ with joy—we’re going to be spending an obscene amount of time together. I have no qualms about calling you ‘asshole,’ but it’s only fair you have the opportunity to give me your name.” Stiles scooted until his back hit the wall. He stretched his legs in front of him and jiggled one foot.

               “Derek,” his roommate muttered.

               “Stiles,” he offered graciously, sweeping his arms wide to present himself.  

               Derek rolled his eyes, sighing with an incredible amount of exasperation, and demanded, “Tell me what’s happening.”

               Stiles’ left eye squinted in annoyance. “You show not even a semblance of manners, you know that?”

               “Tell. Me.” When Derek realized commands weren’t going to work, he added a begrudging “please.” Like Stiles had forced him to bite a cyanide capsule. That level of begrudging.

               “Some guards should be back soon to take you to a lab. They’ll take your vital signs—you’re a breather, aren’t you?” Derek didn’t answer, naturally. “Give you a spanking new uniform.” Stiles plucked at his own matching seafoam-green polyblend shirt and pants. Now that he thought about it… “This color will look stunning on you. It’ll really bring out your eyes.”

               Derek narrowed said gorgeous eyes. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

               “ _Hey_ ,” Stiles squawked, “You spend half a year in near-constant isolation, and then we’ll see how stable you are.” He grumbled and tucked his hands in his armpits.

               “Half a year? You haven’t tried to escape?”

               It was Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes. See how Derek liked it. “Of course I have. I got pretty close once, but all the doors here are numbered, not labeled, so I got a little turned around—”

               Derek interrupted him because, hello, _rude._ “What about this glass? You can't break it?” Stiles just _loved_ that his roommate made all of his questions sound accusatory.

               “ _No_ ,” he responded petulantly. “The goddamn glass—”

               His roommate approached the window, seemingly ignoring Stiles’ _current_ protest, and placed a palm against the glass. So, really, it was all Derek’s fault when he was zapped onto his ass.

               “—is electrified,” Stiles finished with a vindicated nod.  

               Derek held his raw, reddened hand to his chest, uttering a throaty “ _fuck_ ,” and then cast a dark look at Stiles. Well, a scarlet, glowing look. The look of an angry Alpha werewolf. Fo sho.

               “Aside from the electromagnetic field enclosing each individual cell, the walls have a mountain ash frame,” Stiles added.

               His gloomy roomy flexed his hand, the skin already healed but still an abnormally bright pink. “How do you know this, exactly?”

               Stiles pursed his lips and released them in a _pop_. “I might have gained access— _temporarily_ —to the facility’s blueprints…and a few subject records.” He mumbled the last few words, looking around his cell in a completely unsuspicious manner. “They use powdered mountain ash in the transport cuffs and shackles, too. It’s really a bitch trying to get out of here.”

               Derek _hmph_ ed and slid to the floor, his arms resting over his knees, his head tilted against the wall. Now that his interrogation was over, he appeared to have no need to talk to Stiles any further.

               “What’s it like being a werewolf?” Stiles asked. He hadn’t been immersed in the supernatural world for that long and hadn't ever met one. Scott didn’t really count because of the no-exchange-of-actual-words thing.

               Derek flicked a glance at Stiles and then pinched the bridge of his nose. Jerk. The werewolf did use his hurt hand, hissing and swearing as he shook out the lingering pain. Things balanced out in the end.

* * *

               Derek returned from the lab looking especially stormy.

               Stiles had been wiling away the vacant hours trying to play charades with Scott. Because they couldn't actually talk to one another, it was impossible to either confirm or deny each other’s guesses. It resulted in Scott miming his own clues to Stiles’ initial clues, snowballing into an endless cycle until Stiles forgot what the answer was. A work in progress.

               He rolled onto his stomach, lifting his feet into the air, kicking them lazily. His head was propped on his hands, and he imagined that he was projecting a pondering-daydreaming-schoolgirl-kind-of vibe. He would look damn good in one of those uniforms.

               Speaking of uniforms, Derek had changed into his pastel scrubs, complete with white tube socks, t-shirt, boxers, and slip-on shoes. God, he still looked sexy, Stiles admitted with irritation. And, yep, the fucking color totally made his eyes pop.

               Woe was he.

               “How'd it go?” Stiles asked.

               “Amazing,” Derek gritted.

               “What’d they do? I bet your protocol was different from mine.”

               Derek was silent for several moments, as if he was considering whether answering Stiles would be an irreversible mistake. “They took a lot of...samples.”

               The werewolf's nose scrunched as he spoke the last word. It was _adorable._

               “Let's see. You're alive, so probably blood, urine, saliva.” Stiles ticked them off of his fingers. Derek didn't deny it, but he also wasn't making eye contact with Stiles. A notable change for someone who _treasured_ glaring at Stiles. When considered in combination with the defensive posturing, one might assume that the werewolf was _embarrassed_ by something left unsaid.

               Stiles choked, his eyes bulging, and he exclaimed, “ _They took your ejaculate_ _?_ ” Again, thank Jesus for the soundproofing. It occurred to him that this might be why people sometimes accused him of being _insensitive._

               Derek snarled, eyes burning a bloody red.

               “Dude, that is _so_ mortifying.” Stiles bit his lip, trying to dam the flow of his curiosity. It was undammable. “Did they watch you jerk off into a cup?”

               “Shut. The fuck. Up,” Derek spit.

               “Which one was it?”

               The confusion seemed to disrupt Derek's anger. He _almost_ answered civilly. “What?”

               “Which scientist? Did you catch the initial on the lapel?” Stiles tapped over his heart, where he pictured the embroidered _Argent_ on all the lab coats.

               Derek's brow became heavy with thought, until he resembled a pensive Neanderthal. “A ‘K.’”

               “Of course it was,” Stiles muttered. “She's bad news, man. The Queen Bitch around here.”

               “What are they doing with all of this information?” Derek asked, his arms crossed tightly over his lusciously sculpted chest. Still licking a few fresh wounds.

               “From what I can tell, they’re cataloguing it. Building profiles of different types of supernatural creatures.”

               “To better kill and control us,” the werewolf supplied. His expression was understandably troubled.

               Stiles nodded. “If this program was operating for purely academic purposes, these loons wouldn't be kidnapping us all.”

               “What’s next?” Derek didn’t sound frightened, only wary.

               “Based on my own experience, tests first. To measure your speed and reflexes and strength. _And then_ , they'll start the experiments. Manipulating variables, screwing with your body chemistry and physiology.” Stiles brought his knees to his chest and banded his arms around his shins, rocking slightly. The rhythm was soothing, helped him focus when his mind turned fuzzy and frayed. “They’ll push your healing to the limits, until the assistants have to stitch you back together. They’ll explore which stimuli trigger your transformation or repress it. They’ll introduce you to every form of your own personal kryptonite and then analyze and rank your responses.” He shoved the heel of his hand against his forehead and ground it into his skull. He didn't want to sink into his head right now. He scratched his scalp and stated, “Some weeks are worse than others.”

               Derek considered him in silence. So that’s what his face looked like without the malevolence.

               “What if you refuse to participate? Don't give them that information?” the werewolf wondered aloud.

               “Most of the time, there's no choice. The body can't lie. But even so, at least I have value to them while I'm jumping through their hoops.” Stiles hopped up from the floor and bounced on the balls of his feet, plunging his hands into his front pockets. “The second that disappears, so do I.”

* * *

               “Let's play a game,” Stiles chirped. “We should play—”

               “Stiles, if you say ‘Truth or Dare?’, I swear to god—”

               “ _Oooh_ , that sounds like fun, but maybe next time. I was thinking ‘Fact or Fiction.’ Supernatural style.”

               Derek released a sigh that contained far too much suffering for someone who had only been here for two weeks. “As usual, what the fuck are you talking about? And _close your goddamn mouth_ while you're eating. You're disgusting.”

               Stiles slurped loudly from his blood bag and frowned. “Oh, and I suppose you think you're _so very refined_ when you shove a pound of mashed potatoes down your gullet all at once?”

               Derek grunted and bit off half of his piece of wheat bread. The silence bespoke _touché_.

               Stiles sucked the last drops of blood from the packet. It was rabbit today. A little too cold for his liking but still delectable.

               The whole notion of human blood being superior and intoxicating was bullshit. Humans were still mammals, warm- and red-blooded. Each animal’s blood contained different flavor accents, but it was all still just a matter of preference. Only pretentious vampires fed exclusively on human blood.

               Before his indefinite stay at the Hell Hotel, Stiles had a good arrangement worked out with the local blood bank and butcher. A few hunters in town would also drain their kills and give the drippings to Stiles. He slid a little money into each of their pockets for their discretion.

               Stiles pushed the empty packet through the slot in the door to the inner room. A maintenance worker would collect it in the morning along with Derek's empty food tray.

               “Do I have fruit-punch mouth?” Stiles asked, baring his teeth and lips for the werewolf’s inspection.

               Derek grimaced at him and didn't reply.

               “Whaddya say?” Stiles insisted. “I ask a question and then you do. It’ll pass the time.”

               “Fine,” Derek grumbled.

               Stiles clapped and sat cross-legged. “I've gotta know, what's the deal with silver?”

               “Myth.” His roommate examined his nailbeds.

               “That's it?” Stiles complained. “No explanation or further commentary?”

               Derek lifted one brow. “I believe it's my turn.”

               Stiles released a gusty exhale of breath and waved his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

               The very tip of Derek's tongue poked through his teeth as he thought. It was so cute (and canid-like) that Stiles wanted _to die. Again._ “Garlic?”

               “Utter trash,” Stiles dismissed. “And no one ever makes the case for why it’s _garlic_ over any other _Allium_ species. What about chives and shallots and leeks, huh?” Derek seemingly did not share his outrage, his expression blank but for a tinge of regret. “Anyways,” Stiles remarked (seamlessly), “how furry do you get?”

               “I can turn into a full wolf.”

               Stiles gaped. “Holy shit. That's awesome. Maybe you could—?”

               “ _No_ ,” the werewolf snapped. “Crosses?”

               Stiles snorted. “Christian propaganda.”

               Derek narrowed his eyes. “Holy water?”

               “ _Religious_ propaganda,” Stiles quipped. “And that was two. Now, I've heard about wolfsbane. I mean, the name's kind of obvious. Is that—?”

               Derek nodded, his mouth flat and sullen. “That one's true. And the Argents probably know about it, too.”

               “Probably,” Stiles admitted, pressing his lips together in sympathy.

               “What about you? What's your actual kryptonite?” Stiles was immensely pleased that his terminology was becoming incorporated into the werewolf’s own lexicon. There was hope for Derek’s conversion yet.

               Stiles drummed his fingers against his lips and hummed. “Sunlight. Stake through the heart. You’re not gonna try to kill me now, are you?” he joked.

               “'Course not. No stakes in here.” Derek smiled sweetly, but it wasn’t sweet at all.

               Stiles’ mouth framed a betrayed “O,” and his voice cracked. “Asshole.”

* * *

               Stiles regretted everything. That was a little overdramatic. He regretted all decisions made in the last twenty-four hours.

               It might have been a _slight_ oversight on his part to antagonize G. when the scientist already seemed to be in a sour mood upon Stiles’ arrival.

               Today, they were doing drug trials. Stiles was given a few-milliliters injection of blood spiked with some pharmaceutical or other chemical. He guessed that the scientists were just _hoping_ that if he ever did show a response, he _wouldn't_ die. (Permanently.)

               They labeled the vials, and Stiles had made the mistake in the past of reading a few of them. Potassium chloride. (How many fucking times did he have to say it? Re: dead heart.) Lithium, morphine, alcohol. (They could've at least given the last one to him orally. He still had taste buds.)

               His arms, legs, and midsection were banded down to the lab table with supernatural-strength restraints, so it was just better to remain unaware as well as helpless.

               “This is like the millionth trial you've done. I think it's safe to say that I cannot be poisoned intravenously.” It was just one of those days where Stiles was edgy and mouthy, oblivious to any and all social cues to stop talking.

               He knew he was in trouble when G. smiled at him and made small noises of agreement in response to Stiles’ endless stream of acerbic comments.

               The guards had lovingly deposited him back into his cell. The bastard was subtle, Stiles would give him that. Whereas K. was heavy-handed (literally) and direct in her methods of castigation, G. preferred a slower-burning approach. Like where the stress and suspense and not-knowing chewed a hole in Stiles’ gut.

               But that could've been the hunger, too. See, he realized after the first day without a blood drop what his punishment was.

               The guards shoved Derek's food tray through the slot in the inner room door, but no blood was delivered for Stiles. The last time they starved him was after his escape attempt. That had been a grueling three weeks. After the first, he only moved when the guards came for him, curled in the fetal position on the floor of his cell. By the second week, they were dragging him through the halls and bridal-carrying him onto the lab tables.

               The problem with a liquid diet was that he lost his source of food and water in a single strike. He had felt like a glorified zombie. (No offense to his fellow members of the undead community. He still wasn't sure if zombies were a thing.)

               Derek was intelligent and observant despite being a horrid grouch, and he definitely knew something was happening. Although he said nothing, his looks indicated that Stiles’ behavior was more abnormal than usual.

               The werewolf wasn't wrong. Stiles was twitchy and short-tempered. His sunny disposition had gone straight out the fucking window after day two. Part of the reason he felt so foul so rapidly was because he had prior experience with blood deprivation. At least half of his suffering was psychological.

               He hadn't been to the lab in four days. There was truly nothing to break up the days of waiting, of hunger.

               At some point during day three, Derek had muttered, “That kid across from us has been waving frantically for fifteen minutes.”

               Stiles had introduced his roommate to Scott multiple times, but Derek never remembered his name. He imagined that it wasn't a high priority on the werewolf’s to-do list. (Scowl, growl, threaten, rinse, repeat.)

               “Mng,” Stiles grunted, curled on his side with his knees to his chest, clutching his stomach.

               “He's shaking his fist at me and pointing at you. I think he's trying to threaten me into taking care of you.” Derek made a rumbling noise that could be construed as a laugh, but it might have been just a byproduct of Stiles’ delirium.

               The werewolf left once to go to the lab. Stiles didn't know how long his roommate had been gone, but he opened his eyes to darkness, Derek shaking his shoulder.

               “Hmm?”

               “What's going on?” the werewolf whispered, a habit of the late hour, soundproofed walls or no. “Why aren't you eating?”

               While Stiles didn't sleep, other supernatural creatures such as Derek did, so the lights turned off during the night. If the scientists wanted to continue their trials and experiments, they needed to keep the subjects healthy (mostly) and rested.

               “Not ‘not eating’ so much as not being fed,” Stiles slurred despite his attempt to speak with precision and clarity. His face was pressed directly into the floor.

               “Is this for a test? I thought it might be at first.” Derek flipped him over onto his back with a push of his hot hand. Stiles groaned and sprawled, helpless to stop his tumbling limbs.

               “Might've pissed off G. Fucker,” Stiles grumbled.

               “When will they feed you again?”

               “Dunno. Few days, weeks.” He heard Derek's aggrieved sigh and a muttered “Jesus.”

               “Your eyes are black,” the werewolf noted.

               Stiles hummed. “They do that. Can't control it right now.”

               “Sit up.” Derek didn't wait for him to comply but hefted Stiles into a seated position that left him propped against the wall. “Open your mouth, Stiles— _Christ_ , any other time you won't keep it shut.”

               Excuse the fuck out of him for being a little disoriented and shaking his face out of Derek's grip. “What’re you doing?”

               “Eat.” Derek thrust an arm in front of his nose, and Stiles’ eyes crossed trying to focus on it.

               “I-I shouldn't.” _God,_ did he want to though. Heated blood, tapped straight from the source. Derek looked appetizing on Stiles’ better days, and right now—right now, he couldn't stop imagining the sweet, smooth slide of Derek’s lifeblood down his parched throat.

               “I don't want to be stuck in here with a feral vampire. The bite will heal in seconds. Go on,” the werewolf urged gruffly.

               “I might take too much,” Stiles protested, licking his lips as the saliva gathered in his mouth.

               “You won't. My blood regenerates a lot quicker than a human's.” Derek refused to entertain any more of his flimsy concerns, pressing a wrist close enough to Stiles’ mouth that his lips touched the skin in an unintended kiss.

               “ _Stiles_ ,” Derek growled, shaking his wrist.

               He could smell the blood coursing under Derek’s skin and whined softly. Carefully—he didn’t want blood leaking everywhere—he sealed his mouth around the werewolf’s wrist, one set of teeth on top and the other on the underside.

               Blood poured into his mouth, a coppery delight. Derek's unique taste burst over his tongue as he sucked. The werewolf made a sharp noise of what Stiles imagined was pain.

               Stiles would have to give him a big old “thank you” later. Damn, he wished there was a florist’s shop in this place. Derek struck him as the kind of guy who would make an outward fuss but would secretly love getting flowers.

               The first thing he would do when he got out of here: bouquet for Derek. He didn't intend to leave without the werewolf anyway. They were bound by an unspoken roommate contract not to abandon one another.

               In the meantime, Stiles could start repaying the favor by _not_ letting Derek see his erection. It was dark, but still, werewolf eyesight.

               Stiles wasn't _trying_ to be a pervert, but Derek tasted kind of _phenomenal,_ and he was all unstable and half-crazed with hunger. All that surging blood had to go somewhere.

               After several deep pulls from Derek's bloodstream, Stiles released his wrist.

               “You barely took any,” Derek objected.

               “That'll get me through the next day or so.” The werewolf startled when Stiles ducked back down to lick the residual, welling drops of blood away. (Waste not and all that.)

               Derek was right about healing quickly. The skin was already unblemished and unbroken beneath Stiles’ tongue.

               “Stiles.” It was a weary sigh.

               “I might need to feed again tomorrow, and I don't want to drain you dry. Away. To your side of the cell before I'm tempted again.” He made shooing motions with his hands.

               “Hey, Derek,” he called through the blackness a few moments later.

               His roommate had curved across the floor, settling down for the night. His back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up and head pillowed on the inside of one elbow.

               It was. Distracting. Stiles mentally applauded his wise decision to exile the werewolf to the other half of the room.

               “Hmm?” The noise was soft.

               “You are a fine vintage, my friend.”

               Derek did rumble a laugh that time. Stiles confirmed it actually happened.

               “Glad I was to your liking,” his roommate murmured.

               The guards tossed a blood bag into their cell the next afternoon alongside Derek's lunch.

* * *

                “How did you almost get out of here?” the werewolf wondered.

                Stiles would like to think Derek had warmed up to him in the past month. They talked more than anything else. Stiles had tried to initiate weekly games of catch with a balled-up sock (to spice up the evenings), but Derek's reflexes were even sharper than his own, and that became boring almost instantly. The predictability and such.

                Sometimes they whispered during the dark hours, each tucked against their respective walls. Their enhanced hearing didn't require proximity for nighttime conversations, but Stiles thought about it more often than he cared to admit.

                Stiles giggled as he sipped from his bag, accidentally blowing a blood bubble from the corner of his lips. Derek’s mouth distorted in blatant repulsion. “Fond memories. What, are you planning on blowing this joint?” This time, the werewolf frowned at Stiles’ vernacular.  

               “If _you_ couldn’t get out of here, there’s probably no point in trying.” Derek snorted.

               Stiles sat straight up, clasping his hands against his cheek in his most whimsical and dreamy expression. “You think I'm _smart_ ,” he cooed, his eyes and mouth wide with flattery.

               Even if his roommate had mentioned it in an unintentional, roundabout way. The inadvertence could be seen in the way Derek's face scrunched as he appeared to battle an aneurysm. Or tried hopelessly to succumb to one; that was the part Stiles couldn't tease out from the werewolf’s countenance.

               “ _Stiles_.” Derek growled but even that was strained. He was acting _bashful_ , which _really_ made Stiles want to pinch the werewolf’s cheeks and pet his hair and call him “baby.” But that would drive Derek to evisceration. No matter how much the werewolf liked him.

               “Okay, okay.” Stiles flapped his hands in peace. “Well, ya see, I bit open my wrists overnight— _ugh—_ and laid facedown in my cell. By morning, the puddles were quite large. Apparently, these scientists aren't as smart as they think because it takes _years_ for a vampire to die from dehydration.”

               Derek shook his head, his lips lifted in a faint smile. Stiles interpreted it as a sign of endearment.

               “I stayed there until the guard dropped off my afternoon bag, and, _oh my god,_ I had an itch in the middle of my back that persisted for, like, _hours._ But I didn't want to risk moving. It's really convenient that I don't breathe.”

               “So I've learned,” Derek smirked. Stiles’ heart fluttered like a fucking canary. They had _inside_ _jokes_ now (although, technically, there was no outgroup present to make it an _inside_ joke—but details). They were fucking adorable.

               “They were wheeling me to one of the labs on a gurney, which was a nice change. I behaved for a turn or two and then took a couple guards out. Well, thirteen, when all was said and done.” Stiles shrugged like it couldn't be helped.

               He hadn’t killed anyone, just put a few circling birdies over some heads...and dragged one guard along because all of the doors had retinal scanners. Of course the guy lied (at Stiles’ insistence, the man revealed himself to be “Jerry”) and told Stiles he was leading him to an exit rather than the records room. Stiles didn't fault the human too much since it was obviously a very stressful time for Jerry with the hostage situation and blaring alarms and flashing lights and everything.

               “Did you see anything interesting in the files?”

               “Nothing sensitive or classified, unfortunately.” Stiles pouted. “Just subject records and partial blueprints. They didn't want all their eggs in one basket, ya know?”

               “Did you have time to read anything?” Derek leaned forward on his crossed legs, and _wow_ , this was what whole-and-undivided attention looked like. _Interest_ in what Stiles was saying. He had heard of such a phenomenon but had never witnessed it himself. Well, wasn’t this exhilarating?

               Stiles scratched his ear and cupped the back of his neck, positively preening. He wasn’t wholly convinced about perceptible auras, but he imagined his own would be gilded and glowing and angelic right about now. “I had a good chunk of time. I kind of...dismantled the eye scanner before slipping inside.”

               “‘Dismantled?’” Derek’s eyebrow quirked in amusement. Oh god—yep, Stiles was getting hard. From an eyebrow quirk. So inappropriate. He covertly pinched the inside of his thigh, making his eyes water, but it didn’t really help.

               “I punched it, and the screen broke, and wires fell out of it like entrails, and then it started smoking and caught fire.” Stiles offered a beaming grin of innocence before continuing. “Based on the files, there were only twenty subjects at the time. Scott is a beta. There's a banshee named Lydia. The lighting in this place is not flattering, but her entrance photo was _gorgeous_. Seriously, she has these pillowy lips and mossy green eyes and strawberry-blonde hair—”

               The werewolf snarled.

               “Okay, off-topic. I get it. I couldn’t read all of them, but there were a couple of werecoyotes named Malia and Theo, another beta named Liam, a _kitsune_ named Kira, a hellhound named Jordan, a family of wendigos, a kanima. That's all I can remember, but I've never seen any of them in person besides Scott.”

               “What if you tried something like that again?” Derek asked.

               Stiles scoffed and pulled a loose thread on his pants. “They'd leave me in here. Even if I really was dying. I’m not _that_ valuable.”

               “Hmph,” Derek replied, chewing his lip, his eyes distant.

* * *

               “God, I hate when you sleep,” Stiles groaned the second the lights turned on to announce the morning. He wasn't sure what hour it was—or if it was even morning at all—due to the whole underground-and-no-clocks thing. Had to keep all the abductees disoriented. (Textbook captivity strategy.)

               Derek grunted and rolled over to face the wall. It was all an obstinate ruse. The werewolf could never sleep after the guards switched on the lights. Probably his photosensitive werewolf eyeballs.

               “It's a bunch of hours of me sitting in the dark, withering in _ennui_ , unable to make a sound because you snap at me when I do.”

               Derek rolled over once more and scowled. “You were singing Destiny’s Child in the middle of the night. How the fuck was I supposed to sleep through that?”

               “You age at, like, half the rate of humans. You don't need that much beauty sleep,” Stiles reasoned, crossing his arms.

               “Not all of us are immortal. Or teenagers,” Derek grumbled, forcing himself into a sitting position and sighing while he stretched and popped all of his joints.

               It was downright sexual, the tautened material of his roommate’s shirt accentuating his muscles and exposing the coarse, black hair trailing below his navel. Stiles tore his eyes away to watch a dozing Scott, the beta’s head tucked preciously inside his overshirt.  

               “I do remember sleep, you know. I was an eighteen-year-old boy before I was a vampire.”

               Derek gave him a cursory glance from head to toe that made Stiles squirm. His roommate pursed his lips. “I had you pegged as younger.” Derek shrugged.

               Stiles spaced out for a few seconds. Derek's phrasing made his brain take a sharp right turn to pegging. _Pegging and Lydia and strap-ons_. The werewolf threw a shoe at him and disturbed his reverie.

               “How long have you been eighteen?”

               “Oh, I'm seventeen.”

               Derek's brow creased. “You just said you were eighteen.”

               “I am,” Stiles explained, countering Derek's expression with his own raised brow. Looks like it took _someone_ a few extra minutes to get the gears spinning in the morning.

               “You _just_ _said_ you were seventeen,” the werewolf exclaimed, his eyes glowing with frustration.

               “I've been eighteen for seventeen years,” Stiles clarified with a face that explicitly said _duh_.

               Derek threw his other shoe at Stiles.

               “Are you telling me you've been a human longer than a vampire?” his roommate questioned. The werewolf’s eyes were swirling pools of lava, and Stiles was beginning to feel both defensive and insulted.

               He pushed out his lip and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah,” he answered reluctantly.

               “A _baby vampire_. That fucking explains a lot,” Derek muttered.

               “Hey, fuck you, buddy,” Stiles griped, throwing both of Derek's shoes at him at once. The jerk caught them both with ease. “I have impeccable control for someone of my supernatural age.”

               “I was alluding more to your penchant for immature antics,” Derek informed.

               Stiles felt his features crumple and compact in outrage. “If we're going by time on Earth, then I'm technically thirty-five. How old are _you_?”

               When Derek didn't answer, his face becoming all pinched, Stiles’ lips turned upwards in a manic smile of glee. “I'm older than you, aren't I?”

               “Shut up,” the werewolf growled.

               “I am your _elder_ ,” Stiles proclaimed, standing up and thrusting his fists into the air in victory. Scott was awake at that point and was giving him a rumpled and confused look from his own cell.

               Derek tackled him to the floor.

* * *

               Every time the guards came for Derek, Stiles felt like a parent handing his kid off to a teacher on the first day of preschool. He had been doing the tests and trials and experiments for almost a year, and for the most part, he knew what to expect. Derek was newer to this, and that vulnerability inspired a unique sense of protectiveness within Stiles over his one-hundred-eighty-five-pound (he’d wager), muscled, werewolf-y roommate.

               Stiles always gave Derek a thumbs-up and a “go get 'em, big guy” as he left.

               When Derek returned from the lab today, frankly, he looked like shit.

               He was pallid and sweaty, and the toes of his shoes squeaked as they scuffed lifelessly over the hard floors. The guards dropped him in a heavy heap in the inner room, the slap of skin and bone against polished concrete enough to make Stiles wince and grit his teeth. They unlocked Derek’s cuffs and shackles, and two men dragged him bodily into the cell. A third and fourth pointed tasers in Stiles’ direction.

               “Christ, you look like roadkill,” Stiles mumbled when the guards left, kneeling next to Derek's side. The werewolf’s eyes were half-closed and unfocused.

               He patted the werewolf's cheek to try and rouse him. Derek groaned softly and tossed his head.

               “What's wrong with you?” Stiles whispered, voice tight with panic. Derek looked _horrible._ Like a-few-breaths-away-from-meeting-the-grim-reaper horrible.

               Derek swallowed and closed his eyes. “You were right about the kryptonite,” he rasped. “Wolfsbane trials.”

               “That explains it,” Stiles sighed. “You need to rest.”

               Derek’s response was a terse hum.

               Stiles removed his own overshirt, leaving himself in his white tee. He folded it lengthwise and draped the strip of fabric over the top half of Derek's face.

               “Better?” he murmured into his roommate's ear. Derek's hand flopped like a landed fish but eventually his knuckles grazed Stiles’ knee.

               Derek slept until lunch, and while Stiles was loath to disturb him, his roommate still needed to eat.

               Stiles nudged him awake gingerly and hauled him upright until the wall bore his weight. From what Stiles presumed was immense pain and exhaustion, Derek had lost major control of his limbs and his posture. He just, sort of, _lolled_ like a puppet with cut strings.

               Derek gave a puppy-growl when Stiles tried to take the spoon from him. That pathetic yowl alone was enough to convince him that the werewolf wasn’t feeling his best. Also, Derek’s arm shook ferociously when he tried to lift it above the level of his waist, as if it were too weighty for him to raise.

               His roommate officially lost all utensil privileges after spilling macaroni down his shirt for the third time. Stiles confiscated the tray and silverware and finished the job himself.

               He spent most of his day watching Derek sleep, which was creepy, he acknowledged. But the werewolf was, by far, the best view in this place. Moreover, sometimes Derek’s breaths became so infrequent and shallow in sleep that Stiles had to place a finger under his nose and wait for a sign of life.

               After eating dinner, Derek didn't stir again until late in the night. His roommate sighed deeply and wobbled over to him, dropping the lent shirt into Stiles’ lap.

               Derek tucked a finger under Stiles’ chin to steady it, leaned in (very suave- and slow- and smooth-like), and snatched a kiss from his lips. It was chaste and gentler than Stiles expected from a man like Derek. Did the werewolf have fucking flower petals for lips? (They were soft like crushed velvet. _Oh-so_ _soft_ , Stiles internally sobbed.) Before he could even attempt to comprehend the current happenings, Derek crawled back to his side of the cell to sleep again.

* * *

               By the next evening, Derek had mostly resumed his mantle as the Epitome of Male Health and Vigor, but Stiles still snuck the occasional concerned glance. _However,_ the withering looks Derek always sent him shortly after _might_ have indicated that he was lacking stealth. And subtlety.

               Stiles let the death glares roll off him like water off a duck’s back. Scott had seen him cut chicken into micro-cubes yesterday and fork-feed it to Derek. The werewolf’s tough-guy, Mister-Independent façade was taking a formidable hit; Stiles got that. (It's the reason he hadn't made _choo-choo_ noises or declarations about spoon-trains entering mouth-stations yesterday.)

               The kiss went unmentioned that morning, and then Stiles spent the afternoon in the lab doing endurance tests. He was relieved the scientists let Derek recuperate today. On a visual scale, he currently rated Derek as Super-Beautiful with a Mix of Haggard.

               Stiles was having undeniably scandalous daydreams as a result.

               Sexual tension was thick in the air (or so he liked to think). He practically fellated his blood bag at dinner. Derek had to know that Stiles wouldn’t be able to endure this state of ambiguity for long. His impatience and hyperactivity wouldn't allow it. (He had ADHD as a human, and he was pretty sure undead-ness hadn't entirely cured it.)

               He slapped his lips together and tossed the drained packet through the door slot.

               “Soooooooo…” Stiles began.

               Derek sighed and set his fork down, like he was emotionally preparing for the inevitable. He knew it was easier when he didn’t resist Stiles in this.  

               “You kissed me last night.”

               “I did,” the werewolf confirmed gruffly.

               “Are you going to do that again?” Stiles warbled, his hands fidgeting and twisting in his lap.

               “Yes.” Derek made it sound like it was just that simple.  

               Stiles swallowed and wiped his palms on his pants. (He didn't sweat, but it was a reflex.)

               “And I'm going to do more than that,” the werewolf stated in an even yet predatory voice.  

               “Dear lord,” Stiles whimpered. “Really?”

               “You think I don’t notice how you look at me? I have the scent of your arousal memorized. You get hard for me so easily.” Derek sucked his bottom lip into his mouth in an action that was equal parts demure and thoughtful. “I thought it might just be a reaction. To being isolated for so long. But you care, don't you? You actually want me?”  

               “Yeah,” Stiles confessed, his voice gravelly. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I think you're smart and sexy and kind, even though you don't show that last quality very often. I liked you from the beginning.”

               Derek snorted. “Even when I was strangling you?”

               Stiles waved his hand like that was nothing. “Survival instinct. I have you figured out, dude. All gooey center.”

               His roommate flushed under the fluorescent lights and scratched his nape.

               “Stop looking so fucking pretty or I'm going to leap across this cell and make out with you in front of Scott.” Stiles huffed at the current unfairness of life. Mainly, the harsh lighting that allowed nothing to remain unseen.

               He doubted the guards would even care if they _did_ see something, but it was never a good idea to flaunt things in front of those bastards. It always came back to bite him in the ass. The Argents would probably become inspired and want to institute breeding trials or some shit.

               “I am not ‘pretty,’” Derek asserted. But the deepening blush on his cheeks argued otherwise.

               “Uh, yes, you are. And you're as sweet as goddamn pie, too, so don't squabble with me.” Stiles pointed a stern finger in Derek's direction. He hoped the werewolf felt properly chastised for doubting the magnitude of his own appeal.

               Derek exhaled (totally in surrender) and tipped his head against the wall. He took a sip of water and speared a green bean lazily with his fork, chewing and swallowing. Derek knew that _he knew_ that the werewolf was poised to say something and that prolonging it would test Stiles’ already fragile calmness. Asshole.

               “I'd really love to fuck you tonight,” Derek finally commented, his eyes lowered to his tray as he stabbed another legume. The current penetration of vegetables did not escape Stiles’ notice.

               A strangled whine left his mouth, and Stiles slid the rest of the way to floor in a melted puddle. “You're mean.”

               Derek laughed. “I've been thinking about you feeding from me. Right as you come. That would be intense for you. Wouldn't it?” the werewolf asked, looking through his ridiculous eyelashes.

               “Gee, you _think_ ,” Stiles wheezed, curling on his side, his thighs clamped together. Unsuccessfully hiding yet another erection. “I don't want to mess with the plan—it's a solid plan that I very much support—but I don't actually ‘come.’” He wriggled. “Is that, like, a huge turn-off for you?”

               “That's fine,” Derek chuckled. It was a rather warm chuckle, Stiles thought. “Do you still have orgasms?”

               The degree of _blasé_ that Derek reserved for sex-talk was unexpectedly arousing. The werewolf sniffed the air, and his subsequent grin was laced with smugness.

               “Yep, still get those, or eternity would be a _huge_ drag. Luckily, I've been feeding regularly the last couple of weeks, or I wouldn't be able to get it up either. _But,_ _hey_ ,” Stiles enthused, “you still come. So good job, you. Yay to jizz.”

                “Stiles.” Derek sounded simultaneously amused and disappointed. Stiles considered that an overall win.

                “I have one more point to address,” Stiles announced.

                “Of course you do.” Derek waved a hand to encourage him and returned to his food.

                “I don't want drinking from you to become a habit. I'm not worried I'll get addicted or any bullshit like that, but I respect your divine and perfect body, and I'm eating plenty, so it's not necessary.” He puffed out a false breath.

                “Alright.” Derek nodded. “We can save it for special occasions.”

                Stiles beamed at his understanding soon-to-be lover. “I am so ready for you to bang the fuck out of me.” He sighed longingly.

                Derek’s fork paused in midair as he deadpanned, “I had no idea you were such a romantic.”

* * *

               The moment the lights went out, Stiles pounced. He was hoping Derek considered the ambush enthusiastic rather than overzealous.

               The werewolf _oof_ ed when they collided. Stiles had been very literal with his use of the word, “pounce.”

               He dropped face-first onto Derek's neck and started lavishing it with kisses. In the hours between Derek admitting his sexual interest and _now_ , Stiles had been devising a thorough, mental itinerary of debauchery for his sexy roommate.

               The throat was number one on the list. Derek had an exceptional neck, in Stiles’ opinion. It was slender and elegant without being too reedy, his Adam's apple a teasing jut amidst the subtler hills of cartilage in his throat. (Derek had a spectacular side profile.) _Not to mention_ the werewolf’s pronounced pair of sternocleidomastoids that made Stiles both drool and swoon.

_Understandably_ , he had spent much of the evening gawking at said region of Derek's body. Stiles knew the werewolf couldn't read minds, but after fantasizing about pearl necklaces (not the ones you find at a jewelry store) for several minutes on end, he found Derek making an indignant noise and cupping his own throat. It had been a simple matter of recognizing both the line of Stiles’ eyesight and the fact that he was a minor sexual deviant.

               Stiles wanted nothing more than to leave a chain of fast-fading hickeys from the back of Derek's ear to the ridge of his collarbone, but he remained gentle. He kept his mouth soft and wet, his teeth tucked safely behind his lips, and moved upwards to the werewolf’s jaw and cheeks.

               The pornographic, hushed moan Derek released when Stiles sucked on his earlobe necessitated further investigation, _but priorities._ Stiles became so bogged down by his roommate's noises and movements and reactions that his itinerary zipped through the thought-shredder in his hippocampus and went right to hell. (With all the neck-ogling, he hadn't made it past number one anyways.)

               Derek's breaths were open-mouthed and humid, and it reminded Stiles how very, very _hot_ and alive and carnal the werewolf was.

               “Your skin is, like, blazing,” Stiles whispered, dipping his hands underneath the back of Derek’s shirt.

               “I think they said 103. My core temp,” the werewolf murmured, his eyes closed while Stiles pulled his shirts aside to mouth at his trapezius.

               “Wow. Am I too cold?” Stiles looked down at his hands, as if expecting them to be blue or dripping with icicles all of a sudden.

               “No,” Derek replied. With affection? Stiles had never quite heard that tone in the werewolf’s voice before. “It's refreshing.”

               His roommate cupped his face, a soft smile dancing across his lips, and pulled him into a neat but firm kiss. Stiles melted into Derek's warm palms and felt everything slow, the franticness fizzling out of his body and leaving behind a serene focus.

               “You're better than Adderall,” Stiles mumbled. Derek indulged him with an Eskimo kiss before delicately licking into his mouth.

               “Could you please be naked now?” Stiles begged when they broke apart (one of them still respired), tugging at Derek's shirt.

               The werewolf seemed content to do nothing more than kiss his lips swollen and raw and spit-slick, but he spared a second to whip his shirts over his head with an impatient growl.

               “Your nipples are perfect. I _knew it._ ” Stiles peeked at them between splayed fingers because he was pretty sure they were too beautiful to directly behold. Like the sun. He licked his lips and latched onto one dusky bud, flicking his tongue over it, making sweet, sweet, sucking love to it. His hands slid over as much of Derek’s sleek skin as he could reach, trying to extract more lovely, breathy noises from his cellmate.

               “Why are you still wearing _pants_?” Stiles cried in horror when his hands drifted to the werewolf's clothed thighs.

               “You're sitting on my lap,” Derek reminded him.

               “I've been dreaming about your cock _for weeks_ ,” Stiles announced with anguish.

               “You don't _sleep_ ,” his roommate retaliated, his voice quivering with laughter.

               Stiles pushed the werewolf onto his back and then set about flinging Derek's shoes and socks in every other direction but _here._ “Fine. I've been _musing_ about your cock for weeks. I have nothing else to do when you sleep.”

               He jerked Derek across the floor (only an _inch_ ) in the haste to remove his pants before remembering they were knotted at his hips with drawstrings. The werewolf had muttered a few choice, unflattering words about him while untying the laces.

               Stiles soothed any residual irritation by nuzzling the front of Derek's underwear (a pair of white, cotton boxers, distributed to every male subject, that looked terrible on anyone _but_ Derek). He sighed in pleasure, administering a few well-placed kisses along the tented fabric, and curled his fingers underneath the waistband.

               The unveiling was pretty spectacular. It probably rivaled that of the Statue of Liberty.

               “ _Aphrodite’s scallop shell_ ,” Stiles blurted. Derek definitely judged him for that interjection, his brow dropping into a heavy ridge over his dark eyes.

               “I'm not even sorry,” Stiles declared. “Your penis is a blessing to all species. On this planet. Earth.”

               “You're so fucking strange,” Derek exhaled, shaking his head.

               Stiles deflated. The Dick of All Dicks was only inches away from him, joined to The Specimen of All Specimens, and he had fucked up before even getting in a fondle.

               “...but I like it,” the werewolf murmured, dragging his thumb over Stiles’ bottom lip with unmistakable adoration.

               Derek coaxed him with light touches to straighten his arms so that he could ease Stiles’ shirt over his head. Trails of heat lingered where his cellmate’s hands skimmed down his sensitive inner arms and sides, stopping to cradle his ribcage. “When you look at me with those wide, soulful, wanton eyes,” Derek’s smile crept over his lips, “I feel something… _shift_ inside. It feels like you should be mine.”  

               This was one of those times where Stiles had to pause reality and take stock because the present circumstances were just too surreal.

               Derek: a snarky but sensitive thirty-year-old werewolf with a perpetual thundercloud over his head _who just happened to have_ 1) a body that could be coated in marble dust and serve as a live sculpture, 2) a supreme cock, and apparently, 3) a proclivity for heartfelt confessions and tender touching.

               “ _Fuck you, dude_.” Stiles had meant for it to sound admiring because Derek was the ultimate package (with the ultimate package). But he sort of _screamed_ it, and then it just seemed aggressive.

               He scrabbled for Derek's arms when the werewolf recoiled in confusion. “No, no, no. I meant—” Stiles growled in exasperation, and _that_ made Derek laugh. “You have to know how into you I am,” Stiles pleaded, retreating into Derek's shoulder where he couldn't cause any more trouble. Much more trouble. “Just. Are you real? Should I be looking for a flap on your stomach that conceals your battery panel?”

               Derek captured his hands and pressed them to his toned, naked belly. Stiles found no proof of underlying android machinery, only abs. Perfectly carved abs that slipped under his fingers like warm silk. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

               “No. Yes, _fuck_ , you're—” Stiles forgot _words_ as he squeezed Derek's pectorals. “I think I’m broken,” he stated with a nod.

               “No, you just need to stop working yourself into a frenzy,” his roommate assured, extricating Stiles’ fingers from where they had tangled in his own hair. Derek laced their hands together and planted a kiss on each of his temples. “Let me make everything quiet in there.”

               Stiles sprawled on his back across the floor while Derek stripped him of the rest of his clothes. The werewolf crouched over him to suck at his navel and leave sloppy kisses from one iliac crest to the other.

               Stiles writhed under his cellmate’s awe-inducing mouth, inhaling a sharp breath to speak. The second his lips parted, three of Derek's fingers slipped inside to silence him. His skin was warm and salty.

               “Not a word. Or I stop.” Derek punctuated his threat with a kiss to one of Stiles’ kneecaps.

               Stiles made an affirmative sound around the werewolf’s probing fingers. (Really, it was an unattractive gurgle with the way the digits were stroking over his tongue and tracing the points of his still-human canines.)

               The werewolf’s eyes sparked red, and Stiles stifled a wounded moan. “I didn't say you had to be quiet. Just no talking.”

               Derek urged his thighs open wider and leaned down to give the head of his cock the filthiest kiss Stiles had ever witnessed. (Yeah, being quiet was no longer an option.) Soon, Stiles was groaning and mewling like a back-alley prostitute from the werewolf’s respectable dick-sucking technique. Derek had skipped teasing and foreplay altogether and jumped straight to deep-throating.

               “ _Fucking_ —” His roommate pulled off his cock with a lude _pop_ before Stiles could even finish his expletive. The werewolf lifted a brow in challenge and waited, licking over his mouth until it shined. A glistening web of saliva and precome hung from his lips and chin, and he didn't even have _the decency_ to wipe it away.

               “Sorry, sorry,” Stiles rasped. He mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

               Derek left his dick cold and wet and lonely, and _really_ , Stiles hadn’t taken the werewolf’s warning literally. He was formulating a truly incredible whine when Derek ducked to lick his perineum.

_Oh._

               One of Derek’s arms curled underneath his knee, allowing Derek’s hand to brush the length of Stiles’ outer thigh. “It’s going to hurt. Are you sure you want me to?” The werewolf rubbed a cheek against his soft belly and scattered tiny kisses over his skin. At the crease of his hip and thigh, at the base of his cock, on top of each of his balls. Stiles should not have felt so romanced by ball-kissing, but Derek had the unfair advantage in that _he was Derek_.

               Stiles could accept the fact that he was an easy lay, if only for this growly werewolf. He wouldn’t mind that very much at all.

               “Oh, _yes_ , _please_. Yesyesyesyesyes—” The werewolf covered his mouth with a hand after that.

               “Six ‘yeses’ will suffice.” Derek’s face softened, and he brushed a finger along Stiles’ cheekbone. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

               “Hey, member of the undead here,” Stiles insisted, pointing to himself. “I can handle a little pain. Especially for a good cause.” He winked at his roommate.

               “Still need to get you wet.” With that, Derek manhandled him onto his belly.

               “For the sake of both efficiency and expediency, what if I, um…?” He licked his lips, casting a meaningful look over his shoulder at his cellmate.

               His answer was a white, toothy grin and a pair of dazzling, red eyes. Without further prompting, the werewolf laid back on his elbows, the picture of ease and leisure. The only disruption of the long, graceful line of his body was his thick, jutting cock that speared up towards his belly button.

               “Ohhhhhhh god,” Stiles quavered, crawling towards Derek’s body. “You are bringing one of my porn fantasies to life. This is happening.”

               His roommate lowered himself the rest of the way to the floor and planted his feet wide, exposing himself utterly and in every way. If that wasn’t a come-fuck-me pose, Stiles didn’t know what was.

               Stiles swung a leg carefully ( _oh-so carefully_ —he would not be the guy that kicked his partner in the face) over Derek’s shoulder and felt hands palm his ass and spread him open. He gasped, an expulsion of lukewarm air drifting over Derek's cock, causing it to twitch before his eyes. Best. Night. Ever.

               And that was before Derek licked a hot stripe over his hole. The werewolf was not shy in his rimming capabilities either. He craned his neck and pressed deep in Stiles’ ass with his tongue, his nose nudging the flat wedge of tailbone.

               Stiles thoroughly appreciated the commitment. (He would have to add chocolate to the bouquet he already owed the werewolf. He had wheedled Derek into divulging his favorite sweet one night. [It was Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, or when his roommate was feeling particularly hedonistic, Fast Breaks.] Stiles should probably just get him a shit-ton of candy bars.)

               The wonderfulness of Derek's mouth _stopped_ , and Stiles grunted unhappily. “This is supposed to be a reciprocal event,” the werewolf reminded him, the amusement audible in his voice.

               Stiles looked down at Derek's untouched, gorgeous dick. A bead of precome had oozed out of the pink head peeking through Derek's foreskin. The pellucid droplet was sluggishly making its path over the crown of the werewolf’s cock to spill onto the thin skin between his hips.

               “Sorry. I got a little lost in my head.”

               His roommate huffed a laugh and rubbed his beard against Stiles’ ass. “How unlike you.” Stiles wriggled further back onto his roommate’s scratchy face and slippery tongue, purring to himself. “Back to work,” Derek commanded in a teasing tone, delivering a crisp, stinging slap to Stiles’ right cheek.

               Best. Night. Ever.

               Stiles took half of Derek's cock into his mouth, suckling and hollowing his cheeks. His tongue followed the veins and folds and curves, cradled the heavy, hot flesh in his mouth. He dragged the head of Derek’s cock against his hard palate and hoped it felt good. His cellmate growled and hummed _into his ass_ , which made Stiles moan around Derek in return.

               It was a vicious, horny, glorious cycle.

               At one point, Stiles felt a trail of saliva dripping down his crack from Derek's vigorous tongue-work. _That was it._

               “Okay, fuck me, Derek.”

               The werewolf propped himself back up onto his elbows. “Go ahead.”

               Stiles twisted to look back at him. “You want me to…?” The werewolf raised one expressive, dark brow. “Christ, you're going to kill me,” Stiles mumbled under his breath.

               “Already dead,” Derek breathed, gathering him into his lap, spreading his cheeks while Stiles lined up Derek's cock.

               “That’s callous of you— _oh fuck_.” Stiles sank gingerly onto Derek's firm thighs, wondering if the werewolf’s cock would ever end. It was of both a substantial length and girth, but he didn't remember it being _this_ big. He kept lowering himself, and every time he thought the interminable penetration would end, Derek only slid deeper and farther inside him.

               But, oh, he wouldn't trade the inexorable burn and ache for anything.

               “Wow,” Stiles whispered, wiggling a little from side to side.

                Derek rumbled, hands sliding over Stiles’ back and belly and thighs with possessiveness, his eyes molten.

                Stiles undulated his hips, each roll pulling a ragged moan from the werewolf, tugging at Stiles’ taut rim. “I am, you know,” he puffed between unhurried bounces on Derek's cock.

                “What?” his roommate panted.

                “Yours.”

                His cellmate growled and clamped his hands around Stiles’ waist, fucking upwards with a mighty thrust. Stiles cried out, slumping forward onto his forearms, reaching between them to fist his own dick. Oh, yesyesyes, this was what he _needed_. He groaned, unabashed, and pushed his ass back to meet Derek’s pounding hips, their skin slapping together and tingling.  

                Yep, he was gonna be a little tender tomorrow. Totally worth it.

                A pressure, a deep itch, built at the base of his spine and spread through his belly and soft, plundered insides. “Derek, soon, _soon._ Wanna taste you.”

                “ _Now_.” The werewolf’s voice was grating, guttural.  

                Stiles placed a kiss on Derek's throat (because he was a gentleman) and then sank his fangs into the warm skin under his lips. It was not a surprise he finished almost instantaneously. There was sweet blood in his mouth, a beautiful cock in his ass, and a hand stripping his dick. His hole clenched around Derek in merciless, rhythmic pulses, his cock throbbing in time.

                His roommate held his breath, slowing his ramming hips, deepening his thrusts as he drifted through his orgasm. Stiles could _feel_ it, the gush of come warming him from the inside.

                His fangs retracted, and he licked his own lips before neatening up Derek’s neck. He hummed and slouched against the werewolf’s heated body, Derek's cock slipping out of him with a slick sound. (Thankfully, tomorrow was a shower day.)

                Derek responded with a pleased chest-rumble, arranging Stiles to his liking until he was cuddling into the werewolf’s side, one leg hitched over his hip.

                Stiles was feeling pretty domestic, drawing lazy patterns in Derek's chest hair, and murmured, “I'd date you so hard.”

                His roommate's torso trembled with laughter. “I'd like that.”

                “I already have a list of things I need to procure to properly woo you,” Stiles assured, patting the werewolf’s shoulder.

                “What about me wooing you?” Derek nosed at his hair.

                “Just promise that you’ll let me watch you work out. And that you’ll, like, slather yourself in body oil beforehand. And exercise naked. Like the ancient Greeks.” Stiles looked up hopefully through his lashes, batting them a few times for good measure.

                The werewolf huffed, a languid smile on his lips. “Done.”   

                After a brief silence, Derek’s hand tickling over his shoulder blade, his roommate suggested, “Let’s make a date. The first night we get out of here. We leave this town and stop at the first twenty-four-hour diner we find.”

                “It's a date,” Stiles concurred, stretching to share a kiss with the werewolf.

                All they had to do was get out of here first. Easy-peasy.

* * *

                Stiles’ favorite lab days were the ones with A. She was so sweet with her big, brown eyes and offered him a dimpled smile every now and then when he told a joke. Stiles had always gotten the impression that she was here out of a misplaced sense of familial duty rather than some speciesist vendetta against supernatural creatures. So, that was nice.

                The guards always waited outside after delivering him to the lab, probably to keep the proceedings confidential from the non-scientist types. The same reason, Stiles suspected, that he had never seen a surveillance camera in any of the labs. Containment of information and lack of evidence if the place was ever raided.

                The procedure for strength tests was simple enough that the lab assistants prepared the exam table, computer, and adjoining weight room and then left. The space resembled one of those MRI rooms, in that the half-wall had a large viewing window (electrified, of course). A. was tapping computer keys and checking the monitor from behind the rectangular pane of glass.

                Stiles lifted dumbbells of increasing weight to measure his arm strength; pull-ups with weights chained to his ankles to gauge his upper-body strength. He bent metal bars of various thicknesses, broke stacks of bricks, crumbled stone in his hands and between his thighs.

                A. recorded his progress and marked his maximum limits. The guards returned to guide him back into the lab and secure him to the table. Sometimes the scientists did follow-up tests after sessions like today, taking his temperature, examining his pupillary response. This was all normal.

                And then A. started talking.

                “You're the only individual in this facility that has a roommate. Did you know that?” She looked at him expectantly.

                “Nope,” he replied, shifting against the wax paper on the table. “Am I lucky, or is this place just getting overcrowded?” He laughed awkwardly at his own joke, unsettled by the way she kept staring at him.

                “I wouldn't worry about the subject capacity if I were you.” A.’s mouth slipped into her signature, dimpled grin.

                “I'll take your advice,” he replied warily, his gaze flickering away from her.  

                “Scott seems to think you and Derek are getting along well.” Stiles froze. The scientists didn’t mention other subjects, especially not their names. And never casually.

                “Sure, he's alright.”

                “The nights here must be boring for you,” A. noted. “Being nocturnal and all.”

                It was a remarkable thing when _Stiles_ was getting mental whiplash from abrupt changes in topic. What in the _fuck_ was going on? Was this a new test? A psychological one?

                “Sometimes,” he responded, mouth gone dry.

                “I would prescribe a late-night walk. Exercise is a great way to pass those lonely hours.” A. hadn't taken her eyes off of him, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her legs crossed primly at the ankle.

                Between their short bursts of conversation, she had taken a small vial of blood, flashed a penlight in each of his eyes, and shoved a thermometer between his teeth. She had typed the data into the computer before turning to him.

                “I can do a late-night pace, but my cell and sleeping cellmate don't really allow for more vigorous exercise.”

                “Seems like you need more space to roam,” she commented.

                “Seems like,” he concurred, now entirely uncomfortable.

                “Another option might be to watch your window.”

                “No one and nothing ever passes it during the dark hours. I've looked before.”   

                “Maybe something will tonight.” She shrugged innocently. The scientist stood and walked over to the door, presumably to get the guards.

                She stopped short and pointed at the light switch on the wall, keeping her arm outstretched for a long time.

                At a loss, Stiles eventually nodded. She pretended to flick off the lights and then gestured towards the weight room, its white walls and window reminding Stiles of his own cell.  

                He nodded once more, gripping the sides of the table until the metal whined under his hands.

                “I'll see you later, Stiles,” she announced before opening the door, letting the guards stream into the lab.

                They swarmed around him to replace his cuffs and shackles. The moment before the black bag slid over his head, he caught A. winking at him from across the room.

                Oh _, fuck_ yes _._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to [sarcasticsterek](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticsterek), whose suggestion fueled this epilogue-y chapter. You didn't ask for this trainwreck, and I apologize. It was supposed to be a little blurb-y ficlet, so naturally, it turned into like 8k of blather ♥

               When launching an escape from a malevolent, subterranean research facility, one had to prioritize. Now, Stiles wouldn’t say he was _in charge_ , but he _was_ the one driving the minivan. So, that kind of spoke for itself. Basically…

               He was Batman.

               Saddled with such a noble responsibility, Stiles took it upon himself to order the group’s needs from _necessary for immediate survival_ to _that’d be nice but can wait_.   

 

**1\. exit**

His very own Batgirl, _Allison_ (according to one decidedly infatuated Scott) Argent, made the necessary preparations, as hinted. An indiscernible time after lights out, they heard it—the depressurized _click_ of several automatic locks disengaging simultaneously. Derek had elected to forego sleep, agreeing that even if Allison meant to mislead Stiles with false intentions, shit was still going down tonight. It was the precise manner of shit that was still up for debate.

               The werewolf’s head snapped towards the door with breakneck abruptness. It took the entirety of Stiles’ willpower to not scream _squirrel!_ at such a comically canine response. Shortly after the locks came a fizzle, a sputtering of electricity as the tiny floor lights outlining the hallway extinguished. The subsequent and _lasting_ blackout suggested that the backup generator had also been sabotaged.

               Alarms didn’t sound. Lights didn’t flash. Doors didn’t seal. Rather than undergo a security lockdown, the facility seemed to hibernate, descending into silence, submerged in total darkness. The guards probably had emergency protocols and special gear, but that all took time to assemble and execute. ( _Psht_ , losers.) Meanwhile, he and Derek already had the built-in night vision.

               Derek approached the doorway to the inner room and raised a hand. The door that normally completed the mountain ash frame of their cell was now ajar. The werewolf wiggled his fingers in the empty space, meeting no barrier. “The field?”

               Stiles bounded over to the viewing window, expecting the hair-raising, charged air that usually emanated from the electrified glass. Instead, his palm pressed against the cool surface, leaving a smudge on the pristine pane. Wide-eyed and beaming, he turned back to Derek. “Zilch, mon amour.”

               “Okay, c’mon.” Derek waited for him, extending his hand until Stiles crossed the room and intertwined their fingers. His boyfriend was so coo-worthy, for real.

               The hallway was littered with a few down-and-out-for-the-count guards who, presumably, had been taken off guard ( _off guard_ —he was the fucking Pun Master, the _Pun Pundit_ ) by the blackout and stampede of supernatural creatures. Some were just unconscious; others were lying in spreading burgundy puddles. 

               “We can’t go without Scott.” He scanned his bestest bud’s cell and found it empty, tugging his roommate to a halt. “Derek, he wouldn’t—”

               Just then, he heard the shuffle and drag of feet coming from his right. Since their cells turned out to be the penultimate ones in this corridor, the owners of the aforementioned feet must have been leaving either of the last rooms at the end of the hallway.

               Scott emerged, carrying the banshee goddess herself, Lydia Martin. She blinked slowly through unfocused eyes, squeezing them shut with an occasional wince. Her hair was stringy and sweat-damp, and the scent of blood lingered on her. The blackness hid his horrified grimace when he noticed the fucking _hole in her head,_ bleeding sluggishly behind her left ear.

               He shared a quick look with Derek, who seemed to be thinking the same thing he was: _and they thought_ their _lab days were bad._ At least no one had been drilling into their fucking skulls. Lydia didn’t have even a smidge of supernatural healing capabilities, the sadistic bastards.

               “Can one of you help Kira?” Scott asked somewhat short of breath, cocking his head towards the kitsune. A sweet voice, gentle, a little low and gritty. Stiles’ knees weakened. Maybe when they weren’t fleeing for their lives the beta could murmur sweet nothings in his ear while they spooned and held hands? (Platonically, of course; he was a one-wolf kind of guy.) “She’s still a little unsteady,” Scott added.

               Now that Scott mentioned it, Kira’s fiddle was looking less than fit. Her face was slack, her gait heavy and stiff and trembling, her hands twitching with adrenaline. She offered a weak smile and leaned against the wall, winded.

               “Someone switched my IV bag with pure saline,” she slurred, swallowing. Stiles could take a guess as to who _someone_ was. “They’ve been sedating me, so I wouldn’t disrupt the electromagnetic fields or the electrical circuit.”

               “ _You_ caused the blackout?” Stiles asked with more than a little awe in his voice. (A fuckton of awe, to be accurate.) “Fist-bump me, you vixen.”

               Kira touched knuckles with him after only slight hesitation, blushing. “My room had an outlet for the heart monitor. Their mistake.” She grinned wider before nearly toppling to the floor from overexertion. Derek swooped in like the harlequin romance love interest he was (cover shot: Derek standing on the precipice of a cliff in a white, unbuttoned, billowy shirt, his oiled chest and abs on display, the wind streaming through his grown-out hair), ducking under one of the fox’s shoulders to support her weight.

               Stiles rushed to her other side, looping her thin arm around the back of his neck. “Jesus, sorry. We gotcha.”

               “Muscle atrophy? From the prolonged sedation,” Derek guessed as they started moving, Scott and Lydia on his other side. “Your healing is probably the only reason you’re even standing right now.”

               Kira nodded and sent him a grateful smile, relieved she didn’t have to deliver an exhausting explanation. Her eyes glowed an autumnal orange alongside Derek’s red and Scott’s yellow.

               “Wow. You _Kill Bill_ -ed your way out of your own cell after disabling the entire facility’s security system.” He paused, chewing his lip. “You’re so fucking cool.” He tried not to appear _too_ miffed or pouty over Kira’s envious act of (Heroism? Heroinism—since she’s a foxy lady, not a dude? Or did he just accuse her of opioid addiction?)— _dammit, brain, sidetracking—_ over Kira’s brilliant exhibition of valor.

               _Whew._ He didn’t think he’d make it to the end of that thought. Then he’d have an Unresolved Thought Itch for the rest of the day, the equivalent of an unfulfilled sneeze that kept threatening to come out, only in his head.

               “I’m Stiles—bee tee dubs—and the sexy hunk of wolf-flesh under your right arm is my boo, Derek. We’ll be your escorts this evening.”

               “Jesus Christ,” his boyfriend muttered.

               Going forward, Stiles relied on his memory of the facility blueprints to guide them while the wolves employed their sniffers for traces of aboveground scents. Dirt, gasoline, tarmac, foliage; any concentrated odors the scientists and guards tracked in from the surface that could serve as a trail.

               Their quintet attracted a few more stragglers as they twisted through the corridors, passing deserted cells and sprawled guards. A lot of the subjects probably decided to take advantage of the headstart and flee on their own, operating with an every-creature-for-itself mentality. A poor decision in Stiles’ opinion because eventually a swarm of responding guards would reach them, as they did now, toting weapons to incapacitate an array of creatures. Tranq guns, wolfsbane bullets, kanima venom darts.

               The lone targets would be picked off one by one. Meanwhile, the combined defenses of Stiles’ fellow group members made their escape unit pretty unstoppable. By which he meant _completely freakin’ badass._

               Liam, the baby beta, replaced him so that Stiles could join the frontlines with Jordan, the hellhound, and Jackson, the ~~douchebag~~ kanima (who apparently had resolved his internal issues because he was now a tail-wielding lizard-wolf hybrid [A wolfima? A kaniwolf?]). Stiles was dead, so shooting or poisoning him was ineffectual. Parrish helpfully informed them that he was impervious to virtually all injury before _setting himself on fire._ And Jackson was resistant to the standard species of wolfsbane (due to his nifty, newfound heterozygosity) and his own venom.

               In other words, they were the non-human shields. The three of them checked around corners and scouted upcoming corridors, and if need be, endured the first wave of projectiles. Jordan took the lead, using obscure, official hand gestures to signal _all clear_ and _proceed_. Apparently he was an ex-military deputy. Plus, the dude looked like a cross between the Human Torch and the Hulk (seriously, the tattered half-pants and the muscles on top of muscles) and was a pretty intimidating sight to incoming guards.

               Malia, the werecoyote, and Ethan, the other beta, scavenged the uniforms of indisposed guards for guns and ammunition and distributed them to anyone with a free hand.

               What a stunning demonstration of teamwork they were. They should’ve been on one of those posters where everyone held someone else’s wrist until they were all connected through a chain of cooperation and friendship.

               “It’s just like Christmas,” Stiles commented as they rounded a corner, pulling a dart out of his thigh that he just noticed and tossing it aside.

               Jackson glowered, still prickly—emotionally and physically—from the onslaught they endured a few corridors back. (Bullets and darts didn’t penetrate Parrish’s crackly volcano hide, but they left him and Jackson looking like a pair of anthropomorphic cacti. Sentient pincushions. Animated voodoo dolls.) Stiles _almost_ felt bad for the guards, what with the ejected teeth and broken bones and severe concussions, but then decided on: _nah, fuck those asshats_. “How do you figure?” lizard boy spat, shooting an annoyed side-eye in Stiles’ direction. (Re: douchebag.)

               “The collection of multicolored, bioluminescent eyes currently bobbing around me in the dark. If each of you swapped an eyeball, you’d look like string lights.” Stiles waggled his brows in delight, a wide grin exposing his teeth.

               The kaniwolf scoffed in utter contempt and called, “Hey, alpha back there, has your bloodsucker always been this fucking crazy?”

               Derek retorted with a snarl that made Stiles smile sweetly at Jackson.

               “Quit while you’re ahead, dude,” Stiles advised. “My boyfriend can definitely beat up your boyfriend.”

               This time, the snort of amusement came from Ethan.

               Parrish scoped out the next hallway and pulled back, announcing, “We have a problem.”

               “That’s a lot of heartbeats up ahead,” Scott noted, head cocked and ear tilted to listen.

               Derek corroborated that assessment, specifying, “Two dozen at least.”

               Pulling a second gun from her waistband, Malia stated, “It’s a chokepoint. We must be near an exit.”

               “I guess it’s time for me to earn my keep,” Lydia chimed in, silent up to this point. Stiles assumed she had passed out in Scott’s toned, tatted arms ( _ungh_ , yes), but she must have been gathering her strength.

               Liam cleared his throat and piped up, “Um. What exactly can you do?”

               Everyone turned to her as Scott set her on her feet, and the banshee clung to his shirtsleeve in the dark. She didn’t have enhanced eyesight like the rest of them; the blindness and blood loss made her wobble. She looked weary and strained, raw like all of her nerves were exposed, but she lifted her chin and flicked her hair over her shoulder in defiance, like she knew they were watching. A glimpse of the girl she was before this place. 

               “I can scream. Just point me in the right direction and cover your ears.”

               “You can come with me,” Parrish volunteered. “I’ll be able to shield you, and we can create an opening. It’ll give the rest of you enough time to empty your guns into any guards left standing.”

               Scott exchanged looks all around, seeking some sign of unanimous consent. (For a wolf, he was such a lamb.) He sighed and nodded. “Sounds good.”

                “Put a pep in that step, Scotty-old-pal. ’Cause guess what?” Stiles’ grin stretched to Joker-level proportions, the muscles in his cheeks protesting. “It’s time to blow this motherfucking popsicle stand.”

               Jordan whirled into the hallway, sending a gust of blazing heat towards the guards that cooked their guns until they glowed orange and deformed like metal being forged. He concentrated the heat only on the weapons, making them untouchable and inoperable, rather than letting the heatwave indiscriminately blister skin and melt flesh and singe hair. That, folks, was called common courtesy.

               In the middle of the hand-fumbling, gun-clattering pandemonium, Lydia released a scream that propelled the guards into the walls around them, as well as rupturing several human eardrums and shattering all the cell windows in a twenty-foot radius. Even with his ears covered, Stiles felt the reverberations in his bones and his teeth and shuddered in discomfort.

               Just to be safe, they unloaded a healthy dose of tranquilizer and kanima venom into the guards. As Malia predicted, the douchecanoes were defending an exit, which left the gang to tiptoe through heaps of bodies before clambering up a ladder that led to a hatch.

               A wooden hatch. Made of—

               “Mountain ash,” Malia snarled from the top of the ladder, hopping back onto the floor and narrowly missing a paralyzed guard’s face.

               “I got it.” Parrish scaled the ladder and pushed open the hatch with ease, the wood searing and smoking from his hot fingertips. Stiles was _really_ starting to like Parrish.

               Scott followed Lydia up to make sure she didn’t collapse, Liam doing the same with Kira. Naturally, Stiles went after Derek so he could ogle that _perfect_ , flexing, bouncing ass as they climbed.

               That particular exit opened into the storage closet of an abandoned warehouse. Owned by the Argents or other scientists, he imagined.

               Stiles did a quick head count of his new BFFLs before proclaiming, “ _Guys,_ you know what would be _really_ awesome?”

 

**2\. getaway car**

               “A fucking minivan,” Jackson grumbled as he ducked through the sliding side door into the middle row of seats, muttering something else under his breath about Porsches.

               “It’s less conspicuous than an SUV, fuckwit,” Stiles bickered, waiting for everyone to fill in, “and so hideously designed that no one would even _want_ to notice it.”

               Stiles might’ve sighted the minivan parked along the street outside the warehouse, but Parrish was the one who unlocked the driver-side door with nothing but the _drawstring_ from his pants and then _hotwired_ said minivan.

               His dick did _not_ rise to half-mast. He did _not_ insert Parrish into any of his dirty cop fantasies. Furthermore, he did _not_ imagine a scenario in which Derek starred as the good cop and Jordan the bad, wherein they used similarly filthy and punishing methods of interrogation to elicit his confession.

               He did not do those things. Nope, none of them occurred.

               On an _absolutely unrelated_ side note, all of his new friends were unfairly hot.

               Stiles drove because ~~he was a born leader, a beacon of hope in dreary times, an anchor in a sea of frenzy~~ he didn’t need to sleep. Derek slid into the passenger’s seat to provide directions to the safehouse, a.k.a. the Hale family cabin in Washington.

               Malia, Liam, Ethan, and Jackson managed to cram into the second-row seating. While Liam wiggled into the aisle space between the seats rather agreeably (the little puppy just seemed relieved not to be left behind), Jackson tried to coerce Malia into giving up hers. A truly spectacular failure for reptile boy, as it ended with Malia growling and nearly shifting into a full coyote inside their very own Mystery Machine. In disgrace, Jackson sank to the spot below Ethan’s seat and between his legs (like a _bitch_ ; Stiles knew his haughty-snotty attitude was compensating for something).

               Scott folded down the back row of seats in record time (like a BAMF soccer mom), converting the cargo space into a makeshift triage center. The only thing more adorable than Scott, a werewolf and _the_ quintessential puppy, was the idea of Scott being a vet assistant who cared for _actual_ puppies. Parrish’s stint in the military provided him with basic medical training, so he assisted.

               Lydia needed stitches, but they couldn’t stop until they put a few hundred more miles between themselves and the facility. None of them knew the extent of the scientists’ financial or technological resources, whether their influence extended to local or even state law enforcement, the size or scale or geographical reach of their organization.

               Jesus, he just really freaked himself out. So, yeah, no stopping until the van was within spitting distance of Oregon.

               Thankfully, Scott found a sealed water bottle lodged under Malia’s seat and at least cleaned Lydia’s wound, dabbing it tenderly with his t-shirt. The werecoyote held Lydia’s hand, drawing her pain so that Scott could focus. The banshee must’ve been doing a respectable job hiding her agony because Malia started to look pained shortly afterwards. Ethan offered his own hand and split their suffering, and even Jackass Whittemore joined in just to make it easier on everyone else. Hooked up to three supernatural morphine drips, Lydia slept, Jordan holding the damp compress in place.      

               Kira was actually getting better by increments. The last thing she needed was more rest, so Scott helped her stretch and instructed her in a few progressive muscle exercises, trying to stimulate myocyte regeneration.

               People fell in and out of sleep, too wired to let themselves drift off for more than power naps. Stiles kept the radio to a hum, the moonlight and traffic lights illuminating Derek by turns as he dozed. Mmm, he was beautiful.

               Pieces of conversations floated up to him throughout the night. Privacy couldn’t exist in such a small space filled with so many enhanced senses. Everyone knew everything, but they pretended otherwise. For now, it was enough.

               Scott and Parrish:

               _“Why are the corners of her mouth raw and irritated like that?” Jordan whispered._

 _A troubled inhale of breath from Scott. “When I found Lydia, Kira was unfastening_ it _. A gag. So she couldn't scream. It encased the lower half of her face and closed behind her head with a padlock. Kira must’ve struggled to break the metal, as weak as she was.” A pause. “It looked_ medieval _, man.”_

_“Jesus.”_

Jackson and Ethan:

               _“I'm proud of you, baby,” Ethan said, voice full of an incomprehensible mix of emotions. Too deep and interwoven and complex for an outsider to understand._

_“Had to move on sometime,” Jackson murmured._

_“You beat it. You came back to me.”_

_An irritated huff. “It wasn't_ me _; it was_ you _. Getting out of that cell, finding you, seeing you again, seeing you_ alive _. Nothing else mattered—not the bullshit from my past. Not anything.”_

_“Promise you’ll keep finding your way back to me?”_

_No hesitation. “Promise.”_

               Parrish and Kira:

               _“They froze me in my cell to keep me dormant. I don't even know how long I was like that, some morbid ice sculpture. You woke me up. When the power went, so did the thermostat in my room.”_

_Softly, Kira replied, “I was dormant for a while, inside my own body, like you. Someone woke me up, too.”_

               Malia and Scott:

               _“What’s her name?”_

_“Allison. Her name’s Allison.”_

(Perhaps not the wisest choice, with the Shakespearean level of forbidden love, but he knew that was beyond both Scott’s and Allison’s control. The heartbreak in the beta’s voice made Stiles want to stop the minivan in the center of the interstate and scoop him into an endless hug.)

_“She was the only one I could stand, out of all of them,” Malia admitted. “She never pretended any of it was normal.” As an afterthought, “I hope she isn’t dead.”_

_Scott sniffed, voice gone thick and throaty. “She couldn’t leave her dad behind. They stayed back to do damage control.”_

_“We all would’ve been dead there, sooner or later, if she hadn’t done what she did. She saved us.”_          

**3\. cash**

               Jackson’s house was close to the border, a worthwhile stop for spare clothes (the identical pastel scrubs were noticeable _as_ _hell_ and too memorable for a group as large as theirs), medical supplies, and money.

               Especially money.

               Unless they wanted to power the minivan à la the Flinstones, they’d need to buy gas soon. And food wouldn’t go amiss, either, for those not subscribing to a red liquid diet. Currently, they didn’t have a cent between them, most of their wallets on them—and therefore, confiscated—when they were kidnapped.

               Reluctantly, begrudgingly, Jackson confessed (with a motivational knee to the back from Ethan) that he was relatively—what’s the word?— _loaded_ and had an emergency stash hidden in his house, or more properly described, his fucking _mansion._

               Better to avoid cards and ATMs that generated undesirable electronic trails since the scientists might already have gathered their personal addresses from their stolen IDs and installed surveillance cameras and planted traps in case they _did_ return to their homes. (He kept reminding himself that non-breathers physically couldn’t suffer panic attacks.)

               Derek slid into the driver’s seat and kept the van running while Parrish maintained a watchful eye over the convalescents. The rest of them grabbed plastic grocery bags from the Whittemore kitchen and started stockpiling.

               Jackson unloaded what appeared to be a few _grand_ from a safe hidden behind a painting in his pretentious study. (What an _obvious_ place for a safe, first of all.) Ethan emptied the master bath’s cupboards, grabbing hydrogen peroxide, isopropyl, gauze, forceps, and heavy-duty, no-nonsense prescription pharmaceuticals. Malia and Liam scoured the walk-in closet for a change of clothes for everyone, although Derek and Parrish’s delicious bulkiness doomed them both to the confines of their seafoam-y scrubs. (Still good, though; they just looked like stripper nurses). Scott searched the spare room for a portable sewing kit. Which left Stiles to ransack the kitchen for Tupperware containers of various sizes, bottled water, and latex gloves.

               Kira was well enough to sit up on her own, and she settled into the front passenger’s seat to give them room to work in the back.

               Malia and the wolves kept a steady grip on Lydia as Scott sewed the ragged edges of her wound back together with a sterilized needle and thread. Stiles dutifully buried his head inside his shirt and pondered over Derek’s alluring body hair; bloodsucking, he could handle, but _needles_ …ugh. Still, he played a vital part in the healing process: water and proper painkillers were ready and waiting for Lydia when Scott finished stitching.              

               He and Jackson were the next patients, still riddled with bullets—albeit, non-life-threatening ones—that needed to be removed. (A horrifying image of Swiss-cheese skin took Stiles’ brain captive and _refused_ to let it go.)

               “Sorry.” Scott flattened his lips into a sympathetic smile, his gloved hand poised over one of the lingering bullet holes and holding a pair of forceps.

               “It’s okay, Scotty. I’ll still love ya.” He winked, the smile sloughing off his face when Scott dug the tweezers into the puncture in his thigh, fishing for the wolfsbane bullet.

               “ _Galloping narwhals_ ,” he cried out, pounding the floor of the trunk with his clenched fist. “ _Thaaaaat_ fucking smarts. Oh, goddamnit.”

               Next to him, Jackson endured the same agony from Jordan—although with less creative exclamations—similarly reduced to his boxers for easier examination.  

               With each rolling rattle of a bullet against the bottom of the Tupperware container, Stiles murmured under his breath.

               “Shut _up_ ,” Jackson snapped.

               “Five.”

               With even more acidity, “ _What_?”

               “Five bullets so far.” He tossed a careless glance of wide-eyed innocence in Jackson’s direction. “How many do _you_ have?”

               “ _All_ of your screws are loose, aren’t they, leech?”

               “ _Si-ix_ ,” Stiles sing-songed through gritted teeth as Scott extracted another bullet from its fleshy prison with a raised eyebrow and a faint frown of disapproval.

               Jackson lasted eight more seconds before growling and craning his neck to peek into his own container. “Four,” he ground out.

               By the time they turned onto their stomachs, they were both approaching double digits, Stiles still maintaining a narrow lead. (That little scallywag buried in his left ass cheek really put him over the top.) With the side of his face cushioned on his hand, Stiles blurted, “Oh my god, _dude—_ ”

               “ _Don’t talk to me_ ,” Jackson hissed, wincing as the hellhound removed a casing lodged below his shoulder blade. 

               “—you are the _Gimli_ to my _Legolas_.” (Fuck Jackson’s cheekbones and blond hair and blue eyes and _everything_ ; _he_ was Legolas.) “How have we not realized this until now? Here we are—”

               Jackson groaned. “Parrish, can you nick a couple arteries while you’re in there? End my fucking torment.”

               “—competing and comparing our prowess, just like the Battle of Helm’s Deep in _Return of the King._ ”

               Jackson lifted his head, disgust curling his upper lip. “That’s from _Two Towers_ , asswipe.” A second later (and a second _far_ _too_ late), the horror and regret and disappointment spread over his face like a stain.

               Stiles’ answering grin transformed into a maniacal rictus of exultation _so undeniable_ that Jackson smashed his face into the upholstery and didn’t withdraw from it until Jordan declared him healed.       

               (Final score: Stiles 13; Jackson 11. Take _that_ proof of superior bravery and suck it, dwarf.)

**4\. gas**

Derek filled the tank while the gang spilled out of the minivan and beelined to the bathrooms to change (rather than risk the gas station clerk mistaking their concurrent stripping as an attempt at exhibitionistic group sex; although, _yum_ ) and attend to their biological needs. The alpha returned to the driver’s seat as the vehicle guzzled down gasoline and turned towards him.

               “It’ll be sunrise soon.”

               “Seems to be a trend,” Stiles remarked, “the light following the dark and so forth.”

               Derek scowled, persistently and consistently uncharmed by his sarcastic wit. “You need to rest. And heal. And _eat._ ”

               “Yes. _Or,_ ” Stiles crawled over the console into the werewolf’s lap, ass pressing against the horn and knee nearly pinning Derek’s jewels to the seat. A total success, as usual, then, “we could put this precious alone time to good use.”

               “We’re not having sex in this minivan.”

               Stiles pouted, twirling his fingers in the back of Derek’s hair. “Why not?”

               “Because I didn’t escape an illicit, experimental operation just to be arrested for public indecency,” he replied dryly.

               “We would keep it very tasteful, of course, for any unexpected onlookers. Just shimmy your pants down over that dynamite ass—”

               “No.”

               “—and let me sit on your dick.”

               “ _No._ ”

               Stiles deflated. The cruelty in the world, honestly. “What about a quick blowjob? I’ll kneel in the footwell and deepthroat you. No dick visible. It’ll hardly even qualify as illegal.”

               Derek’s brows climbed to judgmental heights on his forehead.

               “Buzzkill,” Stiles crooned in his boyfriend’s ear, rocking his hips forward heavily until he struck an affected grunt from the alpha. “Is it my looks?” He heaved a dramatic, tremulous sigh, hand plastered across his heart, ready to swoon at a moment’s notice. “Are they going? Am I not as perky as I once was?”

               Derek snorted. “If you were any perkier, I wouldn’t be able to function.”

               “Sweet talker.” He smirked and proceeded to kiss the hell out of the werewolf.

               “You need to regain your strength.” So assertive, and yet, Derek was breathing hard and cupping his ass while Stiles sneaked a hand inside the alpha’s shirts. 

               “’m fine, worrywolf.” A mumble against Derek’s lips before he quieted him for a little with his tongue.

               Derek cradled his face, their lips separating with a soft _pop_ , and held him still _._ “You were shot over a dozen times. You could use the pick-me-up.” Crow’s-feet creased the corners of his incredible eyes, and his mouth wore a soft, slippery glint.

               Instant mush. Reduced to a puddle of mindless, enamored goop. Stiles had autonomy once, right? The entirety of his life wasn't just staring at Derek's stupidly gorgeous face etched with exhaustion and concern and fondness. Right? _Right?_

               It took seven blinks to uncross his eyes and bat the daze out of them. “Alright, big bad wolf,” he murmured, planting a quick, chaste kiss on Derek’s lips before pulling aside the collars of his shirts. Oh, Christ, look at all that skin. He forgot Derek had so much of it. And all of it pale, unmarked by freckles or scars or imperfections, _satiny._ Not to mention the _nerve_ of that fucking collarbone, trying to lure him away from his faithful companion, the common carotid, with its sturdy, elegant lines and proximity to the prime real estate of Derek’s hairy chest. Osseous little floozy.  

               “You’re supposed to be feeding.”  

               Stiles licked his lips, gums tingling in anticipation as he smoothed a hand up Derek’s nape. “Don’t rush me. I’m having an _experience_.” He dove face-first into the alpha’s throat, humming against the rising pulse under his mouth, sucking kisses into the warm skin.  

               Derek shifted underneath him and released a soft sigh. “You’re hard.”

               “ _So are you_ ,” Stiles replied in a manner heavily reminiscent of _you started it._

               “Stiles, if you don’t fucking _hurry up_ —”

               He purred, dragging the tip of his nose along Derek’s neck, along the _thump_ ing artery just beneath. “What’re you gonna do, big guy? Serve me an ultimatum?” Stiles mimicked the gruff, no-fun-for-you tone he had come to call Derek’s Dad Voice. (And what a DILF his surly werewolf would make [Despite being physiologically incapable of making babies with a chick let alone a dude, he’d be one-hundred-percent amenable to calling Derek _Daddy_ ] _._ ) “ _If you don’t finish your dinner, young man, there’ll be no playtime at the cabin_.”

               Derek raised his exquisite, furry brows quite pointedly.

               _Well, shit._ Stiles really was his own worst enemy sometimes.

               He pecked his boyfriend’s neck before he bit down, a quick apology for damaging its flawless contours. The blood welled, then trickled, then flowed, his mouth latching. Distantly, he felt the grip on his waist tighten.

               Derek’s elevated body temp kept his blood hot and its flavor rich and distinctive. An inimitable, savory concoction derived from Derek’s diet, hormone profile, and specific physiology. (Plus, all type Os carried a subtle but unmistakable hint of coconut in their blood. Whether it derived from the combination of antibodies or the lack of antigens, he could never tell.) Between gulps, he counted the beats of Derek’s heart, his own cock throbbing in counterrhythm. He stopped when he reached five.

               A fat droplet squeezed out of one puncture before it healed, rolling down the seductive slope of Derek’s neck, under the stretched collar of his shirt. Stiles watched it, hypnotized, and tugged the fabric even further out of the way, needing to chase that last trace with his tongue. Overzealous, he pulled until the shirt couldn’t handle the strain and split along the opposite shoulder seam.

               “Sorry,” he breathed, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth, swallowing back a fuzzy moan that tickled his throat. He shuddered from over-contentment, equal parts horny and buzzed. “Got carried away. Man, I _love_ ,” almost choking on his tongue from the vigorous verbal backpedaling, “the way you taste.”

               “Not my color anyway.” Derek peeled off his Crayola-inspired overshirt with finality, tossing it into Stiles’ footwell. “Your cheeks are pink,” he mentioned with a small smile, thumbing over one cheekbone and kissing the other. “Looks good on you.”

               He was now keenly aware of the blush covering his face. How the blush only existed in the first place _because_ of Derek’s contribution. It was crazy-intimate to consider, for Derek to share something so utterly and essentially _his_ and let it become part of _Stiles_. He exhaled, combing through the werewolf’s dark hair. “And you wonder _why_ I try to jump you in public places.”

               Derek’s mouth did _something_ that might be classified as a smirk. “You should change. Before the others get back.”

               “Fine, but you owe me a night of luxurious romance,” Stiles griped, clambering back into the passenger’s seat.

               “Dare I ask your definition of ‘romance?’”

               Stiles dug into the plastic grocery bag between his feet, swapping his scrubs for a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie. “Well, dearheart, that would be you fucking me six ways from Sunday at this swanky cabin of yours. Lights on, socks off, full volume.”

               Derek didn’t respond, but his quasi-smirk grew, eyes flitting to the ground like they did when he was bashful or overly pleased. The werewolf arranged his cock into a more PG (parental guidance definitely suggested; Derek was packing) configuration before leaving the minivan to return the gas nozzle to its cradle.

               Stiles’ feet wiggled back into his slip-ons as the group started to board the minivan in ones and twos, initiating yet another round of musical car seats. Stiles joined Malia, Lydia, and Kira in the cargo space where the sun was least likely to fry his delicate, vitamin D-deficient skin, with a blanket and baseball cap serving as extra UV protection. Parrish, whose six-foot build had been compacted in the trunk for hours on end, snatched up the vacant front seat like it was the last eggroll of the takeout. Scott was a sweetie pie to the _n_ th degree who let Liam have the seat and took the aisle spot for himself. Ethan bestowed the same kindness upon Jackson, probably for the dumb and inexcusable reason that they were in nasty, gooey love with one another.  

               _Everyone else_ with the requisite abilities had been tactful enough _not to mention_ the fading scents of blood and lust and arousal when they reentered the minivan. Sure, Malia’s nose crinkled, Parrish shook his head, Liam blushed, Kira giggled, Ethan rolled his eyes, and Scott winked, but those had all been acceptable, indirectly-acknowledging responses.

               So, characteristically, reptile boy took a single whiff of air and complained, “It smells like a slaughterhouse that’s been moonlighting as a brothel in here. Real fucking nice.” The kaniwolf only glared at him, rather than in the direction of Stiles’ hotter-bigger-angrier half. (Pussy.)

               Stiles leered at Jackson, who returned the look with one of unbridled revulsion. After tracing a languorous circle around his lips with his tongue, he patted his stomach and let the smugness _ooze_ and settle deep into every aspect of his body language. “Just fueling up, dude.”

**5\. food**

               As it was pointed out to Stiles, not everyone had a hot boyfriend that doubled as a vending machine during emergencies. In northern Oregon, Derek took an exit off the interstate and pulled into the parking lot of an all-hours diner. With the sun once again safely below the horizon, Stiles was back in commission and wouldn’t have to wait in the minivan like a total loser.   

               Malia arranged Lydia’s hair so it covered the band aid behind her ear and gave her two more painkillers to pop. Kira was mostly walking on her own now, but Liam sidled up to her anyway, face burning, drawn to the fox by more than just altruism.  

               The bell above the door jingled to announce their unusual gaggle to the dead-on-her-feet (he could _so_ relate) waitress. Nearing ten o’clock, the only other witnesses were a couple of truckers nursing coffees at the counter and a booth of teenagers by the door.

               They settled around the lone rectangular table in the back meant for large families or gatherings, ordering a smorgasbord of greasy appetizers and hearty entrées. Predictably, those among them with canid genes scarfed down burgers to get in touch with their inner carnivores.

               Kira, in particular, looked ready to gnaw down a few fingers by the time the food arrived. Being fed intravenously for _who knows how long_ probably did that to a person. She ate like a newly-weaned infant, taking small bites and dribbling (lax muscles becoming acquainted once again with mastication and swallowing), managing to perfect a balance between endearing and sickening.

               Still too woozy for hard or heavy foods (and _loath_ to ingest deep-fried calories, he bet), Lydia stuck to chicken noodle soup but drained a pitcher of water by herself. Jordan also followed the healthier route, ordering a _salad._ Not as a side, as a _meal._ A salad. Late into the p.m. If supernatural fitness didn’t allow a guy to have a cheat day, _what did_? Although he might’ve just been trying to set a good example, upright authority figure that he was. Arguably the most mature member of their group, too. (Derek’s maturity had somewhat [understandably] eroded from the perpetual collisions with Stiles’ own lack thereof.)

               Stiles scanned the laminated menu with longing, remembering his love affair with curly fries as a human. Now, when he ate solid foods, they just made him feel queasy and bloated and did nothing to assuage any of his hunger. He ordered a chocolate peanut butter milkshake for the sake of appearances but mostly because he caught Derek flipping back to the picture half a dozen times and decades of repression prevented the alpha from being so self-indulgent. Fortunately for Grumpy Gills, Stiles was more than willing to cater to Derek’s sweet tooth and thereby convey his appreciation, if only in a slight way, for the all the pints of O neg gifted to him.

               (If they existed as characters in a soap opera, Stiles imagined he would be insanely jealous over Derek’s status as a universal donor. The alpha would be passing out his plasma-y goodness all over town, offering transfusions to anyone with a flattering word to give. Lying about where he went during the day and coming home smelling like blood, cheap cookies, and apple juice. Only to culminate in a divinely melodramatic scene where Stiles—at the end of his rope—would follow Derek and find his boyfriend lounging on a cot with a needle stuck in his arm, giving it up to multiple strangers at the local blood bank. Oh, the shock and deceit and betrayal.)

               Stiles felt an overwhelming surge of affection for the werewolf next to him and tucked a fake daisy from the bouquet in the middle of the table behind Derek’s ear. His boyfriend was so startled by the action that he jerked, eyes adorably round and bewildered, and then doubled the effort of his glare to save face.

               Derek wasn’t a PDA guy; he respected that. But the wolf did let him cross their ankles together underneath the table while sucking down the entirety of his milkshake with hollowed cheeks and pursed lips. Stiles caught the entire magnificent show, an admirable feat for somebody with his deficient attention span.    

               “Not a bad first date,” Stiles remarked, chin resting on his palm, eyes tracking Derek’s tongue as it licked whipped cream off his upper lip.

               Derek swung their linked ankles. “No, not too bad.”

               Sweets: _check._ (That reminded him. Add a ninth item to the List of Derek Hale Wooing Essentials: learn how to bake.) Flowers: _check._

               The wooing had officially commenced. Ladies and gents, hold onto your testicles.

              

**6\. hideout**

               “Oh my god, you’re one of them,” Stiles accused, parking the minivan in front of the wood-and-glass behemoth that was the Hale family cabin. Lakeside, surrounded by lush evergreens, separated from the water by a stony shore, with a neatly-crafted wooden pier extending into the lake.

               Derek quirked a brow from the passenger’s seat. “One of _what_?”

               “One of the money people.”

               “The money people,” his boyfriend parroted in a flat tone.

               “Like _him_.” Stiles pointed a vicious finger in Jackson’s direction.

               “If it offends your hobo sensibilities, you can always stay in the van,” lizard boy quipped, sliding open the side door with a tickled smirk on his lips, pleased with both his insult and the quality of their accommodations.

               After a whole day of driving with only short intervals of standing and little to no opportunities for full range of motion, they emptied out of the minivan like a group of arthritic-ridden octogenarians, groaning and stretching, cracking and popping joints.

               Malia sniffed the air, elbowing him with a feral smile on her lips. “ _Deer_ ,” she announced, imbuing the word with as much value as someone suffering from dehydration would _water._ “Don’t worry. I’ll save you all the runny parts.”

               His nose wrinkled. “Ew.” Still, he appreciated the offer. It meant not having to overtax Derek’s poor hematopoietic system while they were here.

               The inside of the cabin was just as impressive. Vaulted ceilings, stone fireplace, four bedrooms, and an open, adjoining living room and kitchen. The back wall provided an unimpeded and picturesque view of the woods with its floor-to-ceiling sectioned windows.

               Derek sensed his dread, stopping at his side with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Beautiful architecture, isn’t it?” the alpha teased.

               “Flammab— _Flamboyant_. What a daring design.” He chewed the inside of his cheek and clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Love it.”

               Derek’s chuckle was quiet and _inappropriately_ warm _._ Asshole.

               The werewolf pecked his temple, curling an arm around his shoulders. “We’ll take a middle bedroom. Only one set of windows, and the curtains are thick.”

               Stiles grumbled a happy noise into Derek’s throat and patted his ass to show that all was forgiven.  

              

**7\. sleep**

               In the end, exhaustion won out over hypervigilance, forcing them to slow down, take a breath, and start to settle into their temporary refuge. Besides, all of them had minor ailments to nurse and heaps of psychological trauma to sift through (or suppress, if that was their bag).

               Scott changed Lydia’s bandage at the kitchen table, with Malia providing some not-so-necessary pain management for the banshee. He sent a knowing wink towards the werecoyote, whose lip raised in a silent, snarly warning. He raised his hands in surrender, strolling back outside to help Ethan and Jackson unload the grocery bags from the minivan. Far be it from him to mess with a sister’s game.

               Derek scrounged up old flannels, threadbare t-shirts, and worn jeans that instantly gave himself and Parrish the appearance of wet-dream lumberjacks. Given their outfits, it was only fitting that the pair of them journeyed outside to gather firewood.

               “So, um, hey there. Are you guys gonna swing axes and chop down trees and get sweaty together?” Stiles salivated a little, tripping over his feet as he followed his two burly cabinmates to the front door.

               Jordan disappeared outside, but Derek spun around, frowning. “There’s a woodpile stacked against the side of the cabin, dumbass.”

               _Dammit. Damn. It._ “No chance of axe handling or glistening, physical exertion, then?” Stiles asked with blatant disappointment, shoulders sagging.

               Derek stared, lacing his arms over his pecs in nonverbal reproach. “You can help us carry the logs inside, if you’re so concerned with being involved.”

               The movement drew Stiles’ absorption. _Glorious, bunching biceps._ “Take off the flannel, and I’m in.”   

               Derek exhaled rather defeatedly. (Sweet victory.) “ _Fine,_ ” he muttered, stripping down to his tee before heading outside.

               Twenty minutes and a collapsed woodpile later (It wasn’t his _fault_ that the single log he pulled from the stack was somehow _integral_ to the foundation of the kindling Jenga tower and that its removal prompted the other gazillion logs to topple and roll across the ground. He was summarily banished from the yard.), Parrish started a fire in the hearth with his blowtorch fingertips. Handier than a Swiss Army knife and a boy scout combined, that one.   

               Kira explored the cabinets for hot chocolate mix and marshmallows, and Liam distributed the steaming mugs like a good little helper. (The puppy love was _real_.) Meanwhile, the sofa-dwellers divided the enormous L-shaped sectional into cushion territories with inflexible blanket borders.  

               Depending on one’s attitude, it was either dreadfully late at night or appallingly early in the morning. Either way, those that did, should’ve been snoozing by now.

               Regrettably, the matter of sleeping arrangements had yet to be settled. And it was going to be a bloodbath.

               Some basic math: ten people + four beds = two suckers sharing the couch, left to moan and wallow blindly in the streaming six a.m. sunlight.

               Stiles’ lethal solar allergy guaranteed a middle bedroom for himself and Derek, and they high-fived to lord the security of their position over everyone else. (Sorry ’bout it, amigos.)  

               “Well, Lydia’s injured,” Malia challenged, not even hesitating to whip out the lack-of-preternatural-healing card. “She gets a bed, no questions asked.” In any other circumstance, the banshee probably would’ve bristled from being treated so openly like an invalid. But, right now, she understood the value of exploiting an advantage. “I’ll share with her in case the pain comes back during the night.”

               Lydia smiled as she primly sipped her cocoa, her hand resting on the werecoyote’s knee.

               Kira and Scott resorted to similar tactics to score the end bedroom. As a previously sickly party, the kitsune reasoned that she’d feel much better if someone monitored her overnight, just to be cautious. And who better to assess her condition than their resident medical professional? (Can he just say how hot-and-bothersome a naughty Scott—and for that matter, Kira—was?)

               Jackson and Ethan wanted the last bedroom so they could do gross, dirty things to one another, but that rationale wasn’t nearly as compelling as the logical cases presented before it.

               The couple battled Liam and Parrish for the lone, remaining prize. Multiple rounds of thumb wars, arm wrestling, rock-paper-scissors, staring contests—with helpful commentary, cheering, jeering, and booing from the rest of the group—until _finally,_ the blue-eyed lovebirds emerged triumphant (confirming that there was, in fact, no justice in the universe).

               Well, Liam was young enough to bear the cricks and cramps of sofa-sleeping, and Parrish could more conveniently stoke the fire from the living room, so it all kind of worked out.

               And yet, despite the painstaking deliberation, plotting, strategizing, threats of violence, and colossal amount of time wasted, no one ever left the sectional. Sleep hit them like a chain reaction, starting with Lydia, who slouched into Malia and initiated a domino effect that eventually knocked the rest of the couch into unconsciousness.           

               Stiles regarded the room, the only one still (involuntarily) awake. Empty mugs on the end tables, blankets strewn, limbs intertwined and jammed up against one another’s. Derek had fallen asleep on his shoulder, drooling onto his only available t-shirt and smothering him with his hot weight. It was unsurprisingly hard to care.


End file.
